Hello everyone, my name is Zeng Xiaolang.

Last night's writing was unproductive, and I didn't manage to fall asleep until around three o'clock. I woke up around eleven this morning. My dog, Xiong Xiaolang, had been waiting for a long time, squeaking in its cage. My wife fed it breakfast, and after washing up and drinking a glass of water, I took it downstairs for some exercise.

Xiong Xiaolang is a Border Collie, one of the smartest and most energetic breeds, and also incredibly cute—which is why I can't bring myself to kill it with my own hands. If I don't take it out to play for half an hour or an hour each day, it's bound to get depressed at home, expressing it by lying on the ground squeaking like a mouse. When it sees me or my wife, its eyes always look like a abused child, and it will take advantage of our inattention to run to the kitchen or under the table to pee.

As I said, I can't bring myself to kill it, and since the sun was shining brightly today, I had no choice but to take it downstairs for a run in the park.

The community park has just been completed. It's vast and sparsely populated. In my birthday essays from a few years ago, I described the beautiful lakeside toilet with colored lights at night, making it look like a villa. The community is on this side of the toilet, separated by what used to be a large forest.

In the second half of last year, a five-story building, said to be a Party School, was built next to the community. Paths were built in the woods, and flowerbeds were carved out. Most of the graves that had been in the forest were relocated. This spring, the sides of the paths in the woods were mostly covered with grass, and unknown plants were planted in the flowerbeds. The park, originally built along the lake, has almost doubled in size as a result. A pavilion has been built on the higher ground of the previously rarely visited woodland. From the pavilion, you can see the back of the toilet below, and a small path winds down, connecting to the lakeside path.

Places that were previously deserted are now mostly marked by human activity. There are usually few pedestrians in the morning, so I listen to music and let the dog run around in this area for a while. When I see people coming from a distance, I put the leash on it again. The trees in the park are all old trees from the forest, lush and green, with sunlight falling from above.

In winter, many branches fell on the ground. I found a few of suitable thickness and threw them for the dog to play with—Border Collies are retrievers, so if you throw something, they will immediately run over and bring it back, and if you throw it again, they will continue to retrieve it, soon becoming exhausted, which saves me a lot of trouble. Now those branches have decayed, but the dog has developed the habit of looking for sticks in the grass every time it goes to the park. Perhaps this can be considered its happy past.

I walked Xiong Xiaolang until almost twelve o'clock. When I took it home, my younger brother called to ask when I would be coming over for dinner. I told him soon, then went home and called my wife, Zhong Xiaolang, and we rode my motorcycle to my parents' place. Xiong Xiaolang, although exhausted, still wanted to go out with us after drinking water. We didn't take it, and it stood in the living room with a look of resentment and disbelief. After closing the door, we could hear protests coming from inside.

Today we're eating at my parents' place because it's my birthday. During the meal, my brother and I talked about "Avengers: Endgame." We both agreed that "Man of Steel" still had the best fight scenes in superhero movies. "Avengers: Endgame" was good, but the fight scenes were childish. I always wondered what a concentrated barrage of fire from the U.S. or China would look like. My brother brought up the scene in "Iron Man 1" where Tony was selling weapons, with a split missile capable of wiping out several mountains. Now it's devolved into hand-to-hand combat... My illiterate father said that the movie tickets were too expensive and that CCTV had called for a halt to it, hahahaha. My grandmother was saying, "Zhong Xiaolang, have you lost weight?" Zhong Xiaolang recently felt that she had gained a little weight, and upon hearing this, she became somewhat conflicted: "It's because I'm wearing fewer clothes."

After lunch, we went out. The midday sun was very nice. I rode my electric motorcycle along the main road. Wangcheng, a small place like this, doesn't really have much to offer. We originally wanted to race all the way to Jinggang, but after running for more than ten kilometers, we reached an old road along the river that was in disrepair. We were bumped along by the dust, and various cars drove past us, presumably all bored people going to Jinggang.

"Then we won't go," I said, turning the motorcycle around. "We're going home, Zhong Xiaolang, don't cry."

Zhong Xiaolang then "wailed" a few times from behind.

Back home, Zhong Xiaolang filled the bathtub to take a bath and a nap. I worked on the computer for a while and decided to take a nap as well. Zhong Xiaolang, having just finished her bath, recommended her bathwater to me, so I went to lie in the bathtub for a while, listening to music on my phone. The first song was Na Ying's "Loving and Hating Too Early," such a tender and melancholic song. When Na Ying sang "The panes of the glass window are like old movies, each frame a faded you," the midday sun was also shining in from the window, illuminating the water in the bathtub, pane by pane, warm, clear, and distinct, just like a movie. I listened to the song and almost fell asleep. The second song was He Tu's "Seatang Wine Full," still lazy, but then the song suddenly changed, becoming the prelude to Hua Yu Chen's "I Don't Care," scaring me to death.

So I turned off the music, changed into my pajamas, and lay on the bed for a while, getting up a little after three. I made coffee and sat down at the computer to write this essay.

Speaking of essays.

A few years ago, someone said that I might be an INTP personality type. I have always scoffed at such classifications, considering them as foolish as the belief that "Taurus people have XX characteristics," but in order to discern whether the other person was praising or criticizing me, I searched for the definition of this personality type.

Some of the descriptions did indeed resonate with me, such as the significance of telling and writing for this personality type. INTP types often think through telling, "People of this personality type like to share not fully matured ideas in debate with themselves," "When particularly excited, their words may also become incoherent, as they strive to explain a series of logical conclusions, which in turn gives them the latest ideas."

This is also true for me. For me, the process of telling and writing is more of an attempt at summarization. In this attempt, I often see my problems. If life is a math problem of "two times three times three," when I put my thoughts into words, the problem is simplified to "six times three"; but without words, the calculation is difficult to simplify.

As such, you have been able to see me constantly summarizing myself and drawing conclusions over the past few years. Rather than sharing these with everyone, I, as myself, need such behavior more to confirm my position in this world. What exactly am I, where do I come from, and where am I going?

I am able to write novels, perhaps because of this habit: precisely because I constantly look back, recalling my mood when I was a teenager, recalling my mood when I was twenty, recalling my mood when I was twenty-five... I am able to write similar characters in my books, writing different perspectives on life and aesthetic levels.

But even so—even with constant recollection and reflection—my perception of the past may still be changing little by little. Which of my memories of the past are real, and which have been overly beautified or overly vilified in the daily recollections? Today, the scales of time may have blurred little by little in my memory.

When I was thirty, I said that the so-called thirty-year-old self was probably something fused together with the twenty-year-old self and the ten-year-old self—before that, this was not the case. The differences between the ten-year-old self and the twenty-year-old self were so distinct, but at thirty, both were swallowed. Now, at thirty-five, I feel more that they are mixed together on a subtle scale. Because they are so deeply mixed, I can no longer distinguish which things belong to which years.

Recollection, rather than being my recollection of the past, is more like "the recollection of the thirty-five-year-old me." Because our distance from the past is already so great, the power of time, the alienation of personality, and the not-so-objective memory are fused together, and recollection becomes something that is only responsible for the present. "My past was like this" has become "I think my past was like this."

I realized this while walking Xiong Xiaolang in the park. The early spring grass still exuded a chill. A father was bringing his child down from the stairs. I held the dog on a leash and sat on the steps, watching them walk past. The sunshine on this rare spring day was bright, and the child made cooing sounds. The turf laid in the park was working hard to take root and sprout. I was suffering from a sore back due to the previous day's workout at the gym.

A physical examination after the New Year made me seriously consider the question of death, so much so that when I looked at the child and the dog at that time, I thought of my own situation when I was as big as him: time flies.

There are indeed certain junctures in life where you will suddenly see the traces of time more clearly. Some people will keenly perceive this, while others will be more slow to catch on. Generally speaking, the slower to catch on, the happier they are.

In past essays, I have often recalled some of the problems I encountered in the past, even some experiences that might be described as hardships. But objectively speaking, I think I have also gained many things in these decades. I have been able to make a living from my interests. After I turned thirty, I have been going smoothly all the way. Although I don't earn much money, I don't have to worry too much about money. I can even refuse some businesses that offer me huge sums of money to write. I have joined the Writers Association, even the National Writers Association. I have won awards, and I have received a platinum contract. I have even won the monthly ticket championship for thirty-one essays. When I was a child, all of this was unimaginable.

My interest in writing began in the fourth grade of elementary school. Middle school was in the same school as elementary school. In high school, I went to Yongzhou No. 2 Middle School, which was a key city school. One of the things that attracted me more was that there was a literary society in the school called the "Chu Hang Literary Society." I yearned for the word "literature" and admired it immensely—I had attended a relatively ordinary school in elementary and middle school and had never seen such high-end things as a literary society. I only heard about this term after graduating from middle school, and it felt like I was getting closer to literature.

After entering school, I applied to join the literary society. Of course, that was all. My writing was too poor, and I didn't participate in any activities for the next three years. Perhaps I submitted an article for a writing contest, but there was no feedback afterward. Of course, I hadn't yet figured things out at that time, and this was extremely common and natural. But I still clearly remember my longing for literature at that time.

One thing I remember vividly. Not long after the class assignments after entering school, the girl sitting next to me was said to be a great expert who had published articles. When we were chatting together, I remembered something I had seen during the summer vacation, which introduced a composition topic: Throw a piece of paper into a glass of water and write an article about it. I thought this topic was really ingenious and shared it with her. She smiled and said, "Oh, 'peeping into people through a glass'.” I didn't know what that was at the time. Showing off my limited knowledge, I felt a little embarrassed.

I would always think about this matter later and find it interesting. At that time, I was living in a small circle in a small city, not yet exposed to the Internet, and knew very little about the outside world. Han Han had won the first prize in the New Concept Composition Competition with "Peeping into People through a Glass," which had already spread widely, but even as a self-proclaimed literature lover, I still had no idea about this matter. I was very excited about seeing an ingenious topic... I often think back and sigh: the world I saw at that time was truly flawless.

Everything I could see was full of novelty and possibilities. Everything I saw every day was new. Every time I gained a piece of knowledge, I really gained something, like picking up magical stones on a magical beach. The surrounding materials were certainly scarce, but the world was wonderful. Even though I had no literary talent, I loved to write. Maybe I would never be able to publish any articles in my life, but literature would take me to magical places, without a doubt.

"Hey, throw a piece of paper into a glass of water, can you use it to write a composition?"

If I could go back to that moment and tell that child that he would rely on writing to make a living in the future, and even join the National Writers Association, how incredibly happy he would be. So many years later, even though the memory has become blurred, I can still be sure that in my student days, I never thought of this once. We didn't have the custom of indulging in fantasy at that time, and also because I was very sure that I had absolutely no talent in literature.

After I turned twenty, I gradually grasped the knack of writing, and then I gradually accumulated doubts. At thirty, I said to people: "I want to see what the high point of Chinese literature is currently like." The direction of literature is fragmented, with no clear goal, full of various confusions and lamentations.

The world and life are such magical things. When you have nothing, you truly possess the perfect version of it. Once you reach a certain day, you touch its boundaries, and all you have is a broken sandcastle on the beach. You can pick up the pieces and make repairs, but eventually it will be wiped out by the waves.

Of course, sometimes I may also have to thank its confusion and failure. The failure of literature may mean that there is a slight possibility of perfection in other places. Because of this possibility, we still have the motivation to move forward. The most terrible things are complete failure and perfect success. If that day ever comes, we will all lose meaning. Only in an imperfect world can we exist.

These things are difficult to understand, and for some people, they may seem like moaning without illness.

I know that many readers may want to feel motivation in my essays. I have considered whether to write these things down, but I think this is my state at thirty-five. Every one of us, on a certain day, may touch a certain boundary. You will see the trajectory of your future, and it will be almost the same. Sometimes you may even feel bored. You can only find the joy of life in some more complex details.

So I still want to describe these things truthfully. I think this may be the real node in life that goes from simple to complex. Before this, we like simple pop music, and after this, we may like something more profound and with more charm, such as symphonic music? Before this, we despise everything, but after this, we may be more willing to experience some sense of ritual? Or maybe it exists in more forms of expression. If we take the present as the node, who am I just looking at the present me?

Recently, I occasionally read aloud "I and the Temple of Earth."

I have told you many times that I read it over and over again in the early reading class in middle school, realizing the beauty of words. In those past years, I probably read it hundreds of times repeatedly, but I haven't read it in recent years. A few months ago, I picked it up and read it again, only to realize that the kind of calmness of the past has left me. My thinking often runs to more complex places, and it is not only concentrated on the book.

I spent a lot of effort to finish reading it completely. There are some weights in the article that I have never felt before. What exists in the middle is no longer the smooth and unimpededness of the teenage years, but more of the inflections and exclamations after the language. I think such complexity is not necessarily a bad thing. The question is, what can I extract from it.

I have been writing in the small room at home recently. The room has a good view. A laptop and a small, blue-axis portable keyboard can't do anything else. After Zhong Xiaolang goes to the flower shop, I will also sit in front of the window and read a book, sometimes reading it out loud. Life has not completely gotten back on track. The physical examination after the New Year gave the body a warning. I went to the gym and got a card. After exercising for a month, my condition is gradually improving, but it still can't cooperate well with the rhythm of writing, and I occasionally have insomnia recently.

I sometimes write the beginnings of other books. Some of them will be left, and some will be overthrown after writing. I occasionally chat with friends in the group about writing and discuss the late architecture of Son-in-Law. My family occasionally wants to urge us to have children, but they don't say it in front of me. I hate children - after all, my younger brother is ten years younger than me, and I have had enough of his various rebellious manifestations.

Life often enters the next stage when you are not prepared. When I was in my teens, I yearned for literature, but then my brother got sick and suddenly couldn't read, so he had to enter society. After entering society, he made money in a daze. After working hard for a few years, he suddenly turned thirty, so he fell in love and got married. After getting married, he began to run in. I really want to rest for a few years - I don't have the confidence to raise and teach a child yet, but we don't have much time.

Perhaps in the second half of this year, perhaps next year, we will always have a child. I actually understand that we can never be prepared for this kind of thing in life, and there will always be a day when it will come to an end unknowingly.

I finished "Hidden Kill" when I was twenty-four years old.

A few days ago, Mr. Luo Sen sent me a message saying, "Thank you for making Xun's belly bigger and explicitly putting Dongfang Wan on the bed." Although there are certainly many problems, there are "very good things" in it. When I was in high school, I finished reading almost all the rental bookstores next to the school, and I repeatedly figured out the words and structure in "The Tale of Graceful Demeanor". When I wrote "Hidden Kill", I was also thinking about the writing style of books such as "The Tale of Graceful Demeanor" and "Ali". How could I have imagined that one day Luo Sen would read this book?

Time is the most ruthless, but time will also leave many precious and warm things. I think that to this day, whether it is for Zeng Xiaolang at the age of fourteen or Zeng Xiaolang at the age of twenty-four, it should not be considered a failure. I am very grateful for your hard work. Although I still can't be prepared to face this world today, I at least know how to deal with it.

We will stay at this node for a moment, and time will push us forward mercilessly. I often regret the past and fear the future.

- I occasionally see the words "Don't miss the past, don't fear the future" in some chicken soup, which is nonsense. It is precisely because there are excellent things in the past that we feel regret, and it is precisely because we value the future that we will fear and hold on to the present. If we really don't miss or fear, how hasty our lives should be.

This is what I can see this year. Regarding that complex world, perhaps it will take many years before we can make a conclusion. I hope that at that time, we can still say goodbye to each other and cherish each other.

There may be an update in the evening, or there may not be, but this year's essay will end here - Zhong Xiaolang is urging me to have dinner.

Sincerely.

Salute.

Angry Banana – May 1, 2019.