"Doesn't anyone celebrate your birthday?" a friend asked me during a casual chat. I was taken aback and realized that I was already 19 years old, wondering how long it had 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 nonchalantly. 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 became aware of "reality," which 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 watching it run a distance that seemed effortless was my limit. "This was bought by my dad from out of town," that phrase floated past my ears, and slowly, I realized that childhood also had its price. Most of my classmates chose to remain silent, and I was one of them. Over time, a seed of inferiority was planted in my heart, and when chatting with others and expressing my opinions, I felt very uncomfortable. "I think the chestnuts from Li Shang Huang taste better, what do you think?" "They're okay," I couldn't dare to say I hadn't tried them, fearing that would make me feel inferior to others. I was always like this, recognizing reality but not daring to accept it, closing myself off while waiting for the day I could try various chestnuts from different shops before sharing my opinion.
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, which made me very happy. I felt I finally had a chance to change my destiny. My family valued my education greatly; during my three years of high school, I could dictate the direction of my studies, and my mother would wake up early to buy breakfast for me. Most of my high school classmates came from well-off families, all considered middle class (since small classes could be entered through connections). As I interacted with them, I gradually 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 in school. Looking back, those were truly good times; my family was by my side, and I didn't have to worry about the various issues I now face, only needing to focus on doing well in every exam. In middle school, I became the class clown, and surprisingly, I was the same in high school. They gave me the title of "Class 6 Popular King," and 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 see the world elsewhere, so I filled out my application for bustling Shanghai, thinking that now I could be considered "knowledgeable." As I stepped through the university gates, my brother watched me from outside, and I turned back to look at him, as if saying, "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 the same child as before. I like to close myself off, feeling weak and hesitant to communicate, centering my world around others. After entering university, I often feel emo late at night, perhaps because reality differs from 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 recall a moment, a place, or a person from my past and become entangled in those memories until I can't sleep at night, or feel deeply sad during the day because of something someone said. But these seem to have become a part of my life, and I greedily crave these experiences like a drug. I think I can only live in the occasional memories. As a child, I wanted to see big cities; 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 ripple. They felt like old friends, often appearing in my fantasies. Is growing up just about living in a big city?
Until one day during the New Year, I didn't go with my dad anymore, but with my brother. That day, my brother, cousin, and I got completely drunk together; my brother kept reminding me not to drink too much. We drank for so long that I lost track of time, only realizing it was getting dark when it was time to leave. I still couldn't express the thoughts I had been drowning in for so long; maybe 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 traffic, knowing I could never return to that innocent child.
I always joke with my friends, saying, "This is too much," "It's all abstract, kid"....... but I only dare to share my true feelings and experiences with friends after drinking, still hesitating for a long time before saying "Keep it up." I don't know when it started, but I began to crave getting drunk, as if that was the only time I could be my true self, 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 ask me, "What do you want 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 whatever we do together."
I also have my own ideals and unrealistic expectations, wanting to go to distant places, while also having 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 enjoy 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 all the things I am infatuated with, to prevent the pain of loss. Depression feels like playing a game for too long, getting tired of it, and 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..."