From Weiguang

Happy Mid-Autumn Festival and National Day holiday.

I am writing from [city removed], where the temperature has suddenly dropped. The weather has pulled us forcibly from one season into another, as if pointing out how far the progress bar of time has moved.

Although we have added each other on WeChat, I still seem to prefer a form of correspondence that asks for no immediate response. I can sit alone, offline in spirit, and finish this aimless ramble without forcing it into a logical shape.

I recently changed jobs and am continuing the repetitive life of a programmer at [company removed]. I have just completed my probation review too. I do not know whether it has something to do with AI’s development, but lately the speed of time feels unreal. It holds more events, yet they pass in a briefer thought. That feels like a paradox.

“It’s been a long time since I walked the road to school; I’ve recently changed jobs too.” That is the song I played over and over at [former workplace removed] when I wanted to change jobs. Now I can occasionally bear to listen to its opening again. A friend recently said songs absorb the feelings and memories of the time when we hear them, but listening repeatedly later mixes in part of our next self. So he saves songs full of memories for rare, cherished listens. I realized I am not alone in this. The songs I repeat and the songs I write are time capsules, keeping part of who I was. In October in [city removed], hearing the first two lines of the song “魚仔”, I can still feel that summer’s fierce sunshine in [city removed], and the cool breeze when I finally reached the space beneath the footbridge.

Only recently have I really felt that time is finite. I need to choose, to subtract things from life, yet everything seems hard to give up. I bought some printed books, including one in traditional Chinese with vertical text. I have to read certain sentences over and over to assemble their meaning; I cannot let my attention drift. Each time I lose the thread and go back, I feel inefficient and wonder why I cannot simply waste time in this leisurely way. The older we get, the more we seem to need to attach some reasonable meaning to everything before we can feel entitled to do it.

At this point, this ramble seems rather too scattered, and I am hesitating to send it. But email is a form without much pressure. I can set this lightly constrained message in a bottle afloat. This year I still have not truly become lighter. In many ways I am still struggling with myself. But at least I no longer resist my circumstances so fiercely.