"Doesn't anyone celebrate your birthday?" a friend asked me during a casual chat. I felt a jolt in my heart and realized that I was already 19 years old. How long has it been since I had a proper birthday celebration? "Everyone around me doesn't really celebrate each other's birthdays, so it's not that important," I replied dismissively. I remember when I was in elementary school, I had a rare birthday celebration; my grandmother and uncle actually came to my house and brought a cake. At that time, I never thought I would miss such birthdays in the future; I was just happy. The joy of childhood was simple—perhaps it was just a 50-cent spicy snack, laughing out loud when happy, showing sadness on my face, and crying when I was sad, never afraid to express myself. Maybe it was the support of my parents or the innocence of childhood; my parents and older brother seemed so strong in my eyes, strong enough to fulfill any wish I could think of. I don't know when it started, but I gradually learned about "reality." It told me that everything in this world has a price, and without enough money, I couldn't do certain things. At first, I didn't believe it. I took my beloved toy car to school to race with my classmates, and when I saw how far it could go, I realized that was my limit. "My dad bought this from out of town," that phrase floated through my ears, and slowly, I realized that childhood also had a price. Most classmates chose to remain silent, and I was one of them. Over time, the seeds of inferiority were sown in my heart. When chatting with others and expressing my opinions, I felt very uncomfortable. "I think the chestnuts from Li Shang Huang are tastier, what do you think?" "They're okay," I didn't dare to say I hadn't tried them, thinking that would make me feel behind others. I was always like this, recognizing reality but not daring to accept it, closing myself off, waiting for the day I could try chestnuts from various shops before sharing my opinions.
Thus, I grew up as a child in the village, attending elementary and middle school in the countryside, where conditions weren't very good. Fortunately, I was determined to prove myself and got into a small class at a regular high school in town. I was so happy at that time, thinking I finally had a chance to change my destiny. My family placed great importance on my studies; during my three years of high school, I could dictate the direction of my life, and my mom would wake up early to buy breakfast for me. My high school classmates generally came from well-off families, all considered middle class (because small classes could be entered through connections). As I interacted with them, I slowly forgot that I came from the countryside. During this time, chatting with my middle school classmates, I gained a sense of illusory confidence. Three years passed quickly, and due to the pandemic, I spent only about two years at school. Looking back, those days were truly wonderful; my family was by my side, and I didn't have to worry about the various issues I face now. I only needed to focus on doing well in every exam. In middle school, I became the class clown, and unexpectedly, I was the same in high school. They gave me the title of "Class 6 Popular King." I felt it was meaningful to bring joy to others, so I could accept all kinds of limitless jokes. After the college entrance examination, I thought I could finally go somewhere else to see the world, so I filled out my application for bustling Shanghai, thinking that now I could be "knowledgeable." As I stepped through the university gates, my brother watched me from outside, and I turned back to look at him, as if to say, "I can do it!"
Looking back, I am already in my third year of college. So what has growth brought me? I feel like I am still that same child. I like to close myself off, feeling weak and afraid to communicate, centering my world around others. After entering university, I often feel emo late at night, probably because reality doesn't match my ideals. After such a long time, I haven't learned to study well, nor have I experienced a passionate romance; I just often space out, thinking about things aimlessly. I might get tangled up at night thinking of a moment, a place, or a person from my past, or feel deeply sad during the day because of something someone said. But these seem to have become part of my life, and I greedily let all of this happen like a drug addict. I think I can only live in the memories that come by chance. As a child, I wanted to see big cities, and when I grew up and came to Shanghai, standing by the railing at the Bund, I looked up at the CBD across the river, but my heart felt no waves. They felt like old friends, often appearing in my fantasies. Is growing up just about living in big cities?
Until one day during the New Year, when visiting relatives, I no longer went with my dad but with my brother. That day, my brother, cousin, and I got completely drunk together. My brother kept reminding me not to drink so much while we were drinking. We drank for so long that I lost track of time, only realizing it was getting dark when we needed to leave. I still couldn't express the thoughts I had been drowning in for so long; I guess I just hadn't drunk enough. On the way back, sitting in my brother's car, I insisted that I hadn't drunk much and was fine, looking out the window at the flow of cars, knowing I could never return to that innocent child.
I always joke with my friends, saying, "This is too ridiculous," "It's all abstract, kid" ... but I only dare to share my true feelings and experiences with friends after drinking, still stammering before finally saying "Keep it up." I don't know when it started, but I began to crave getting drunk, as if only then was I truly myself, yet there was still an invisible hand restraining me from expressing myself. Others often say I am emotionally stable, but in life, I am always unpredictable, lacking expression and remaining bland. When friends casually ask me, "What are we going to do?" I always reply, "I don't know," but what I really want to say is, "Just stay with me; I'm fine with anything as long as I'm with you."
I also have my own ideals and unrealistic expectations, wanting to go further away, and I have my own rhythm of life. After dinner at night, when I have nothing to do, I occasionally go for a walk in the park, wearing headphones, listening to music and spacing out, or just running. I like quietness and planning, but I also do some not-so-normal things on a whim. I know I am not particularly talented or hardworking; I always fear speaking when it's my turn in class, afraid to talk in front of many people. I envy those who can speak confidently in a crowd, but I find it hard to become one of them. I am wary of everything that fascinates me to prevent the pain of loss. Depression feels like playing a game for too long and getting bored, then quitting, but in the game of life, you can't quit; you can only be depressed. I think: as long as I play the next part of my life with the most sincere feelings, that should be enough.
"There are too many people walking aimlessly, listening to music, missing someone, and feeling heartache without saying a word..."