I have a peculiar trait: when my mood is low, I become extraordinarily focused, and my efficiency multiplies—work that normally takes thirty hours to finish can often be wrapped up in just ten. On closer reflection, this "focus in low spirits" is really a habit acquired over time: I use a state of complete absorption to counter depression, which could perhaps be seen as a form of self-distraction.
To cope with various emotional fluctuations, I have practiced many methods, and as a result, I can often quickly enter a healthier psychological cycle, leading friends to frequently praise me for having a "stable core." However, I gradually realized that aside from focusing intently on getting things done, what is truly more important is the "spiritual fulcrum" in my heart.
Whenever negative emotions such as annoyance, regret, anxiety, and disappointment surge over me, I need to rely heavily on certain spiritual and artistic works to keep myself from sinking deep into them.
They are the stars above my head, my spiritual pillars.
Yesterday, when I was feeling down, I tried working continuously, tried talking with friends, tried organizing and decluttering, and finally tried calligraphy and other things, only to find that none of it helped at all. It left me feeling somewhat exasperated.
Why was that?
Perhaps the exhaustion and setbacks of the past few months suddenly converged at the very same moment—how could I, a mere mortal, hold up against that?
In the depths of the night, I brought out the blog posts and poems I had written in the past to read. I found that these were the things spiritually closest to me. Those reflections and expressions comforted me, and my spirit settled down immediately. Who could be closer to me than another version of myself?
I reconnected with that confident, expansive inner world. Those past words were a familiar, warm, and resilient strength.
From eighteen to twenty-four, I wandered this world, doing hardly any serious business, but I created one spiritual portrait after another, and those sentences still help me to this day.
Among the works I read last night, the poetry from "Returning Tide," written at age 22, moved me deeply. Back then, it was written as a poem for all the characters in my novel; in a daze, all those people seemed to stand together with me, right inside my room. Listening to the sound of rain, I wrote down these lines:
We are all dust upon the stars,
When every raindrop splashes,
You must know this is dust upon the stars.
The light of the universe flickers within hydrogen atoms,
Light, too, is the dust of stars.
Dazzling blue is dust,
Blinding red is dust as well.
Leaping motion is dust,
What drifts down is also dust.
The ocean is dust,
Ships are dust as well.
Roses are dust,
The moon is dust as well.
All dust is a star,
You and I soar in the dust upon dust,
Soaring, and falling again.
Perhaps out of pity for their fates, I mentioned: "We are dust upon the stars, and dust is also a star." It was originally meant for them to hear, yet now it has become an echo I listen to myself. Leafing through these words again, I felt once more as though they were right by my side.
I used to possess many stars. Whenever I saw someone trapped in a predicament over an idea, and I could do a few things to change that thought, I would unfailingly reach out, pluck a star, and give it to them.
People are always generous when they are young. What I often said must have been: Let's solve this together.
I gave away countless stars and also gained many friends. But to be fair, I probably have never received a single star—perhaps my standards are too high.
First, I don't really seek help from the outside world; second, who could possibly give me a star?
Everyone is so busy—busy making money, busy socializing, busy comparing themselves to others. No one says: I know you need this, and in your days to come, when you look upon it, you will be inspired, healed, and granted joy.
The stars I have received can be counted on one hand; the stars I have given away are beyond count.
Only when the novel that healed me turned out to be something I wrote at age 22 did I see this clearly: the fulcrum of my spiritual world hasn't been updated for a very long time.
Why do I always spend time on others, yet so seldom spend time on myself?
I am smarter now than I was at 22, able to understand the world more accurately, full of energy and unwavering resilience.
Except for failing to manage my finances properly and spending all my money, I have achieved my best in terms of resilience, ability, and self-awareness. These past four or five years may well be the prime of my life.
Therefore, I should build more spiritual fulcrums for myself. In the future, when I am heartbroken, I won't have to pull out works from when I was 22 to heal myself, but rather draw upon new, mature things built in the present.
I have overdrawn a lot of myself for others in the past; going forward, I may need to take care of a few things for myself.
I haven't figured out yet what I will make, but it will certainly be a spiritual work dedicated to myself—to let it shine, heal myself, and shelter others over the next twenty years.