I’ve been feeling unexpectedly relaxed this week. Maybe it’s what they mean by, “The Bodhi is not a tree, the bright mirror is no stand.” I hate to admit it, but I think I’m growing up—and not in that teenage, performative way. I’m in my mid-twenties now, physically settled and mentally adapting after nearly two years of full-time work. So many experiences, even the small ones, have left their mark. But lately, things have started to feel more familiar. I’m finding a rhythm, beginning to understand the nature of my work.
You know what strikes me about Beijing? It has this punk spirit. It’s an intensely high-pressure city, yet it’s also the most punk place in mainland China, the birthplace of Chinese punk and rock. I think the people who come to live here carry a kind of punk attitude, or to put it more plainly, an absorbed, unfiltered way of being. Let me describe a small moment: sometimes when I walk from the subway to the office, I see an old man on an electric wheelchair, bundled in thick clothes that make him look like a Tiger tank from World War II. He moves slowly down the street, just a little faster than walking pace. Once, I saw him stop—and then light a cigarette. He took a drag, held it, and continued steering his chair forward, a wisp of smoke trailing from his fingertips. All around him, electric bikes and people rush past like a gale or a downpour. In that stillness, he reminded me of Guts from Berserk. Weird, I know, but you see what I mean. Those are the kind of sparks you find in everyday life.
There’s no big philosophy here, just sketches of life—less ideological imprint, more pure perspective. It’s like the lyrics say: “I know you desperate for a change, let the pen glide. But the only real change come from inside. But the only real change come from inside.”