This past week, I organized my room and came across a stack of old notes from a decade ago. It appeared I journaled for about three months before picking it up again six years later.
I was taken aback by what I privately wrote, in Chinese, on August 23, 2014:
A blank piece of paper.
Don’t know what to write.
No plans.
No goals.
I must write.
Translate my thoughts into ink.
I don’t need a glamorous life.
But I don’t want a suffocating routine of only making money and paying bills.
I must leave here.
Life has to be more than this.
Many aspects of me have changed in 9 years, but many have also remained.