This past week, I organized a drawer and came across a stack of old notes. It appeared I journaled for about three months in 2014 (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 also 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 evolved in the last decade, but many have also remained.