Is the cruelty of life truly a lament?

　　Cruelty is often a feeling of contrast. During the college entrance exam season, some aspire to top universities, while others pray they won't fail. This contrast creates a sense of cruelty. Newcomers in every industry see established veterans effortlessly navigating life, while newcomers complain, feel lost, and are shrouded in gloom. Their energy levels instantly plummet.

　　Beyond cruelty, there may be relief, there may be speculation, but these ultimately turn into a feeling of powerlessness. Wang Xiaobo was right: "All human suffering is essentially anger at one's own powerlessness." Like the characters in the recently popular TV series "Ode to Joy 2," everyone truly has their own troubles. I even endured Ah Nai's rambling writing style to finish the novel.

　　Humans ponder various questions of happiness and success, yet the world doesn't seem to intend to treat us gently. Life's blows are inevitable; some are self-inflicted, some are given by life. Perhaps those who love writing have a kind of obsessive-compulsive tendency, able to muster a thick skin when faced with unexpected harm, adopting a self-deceptive attitude, laughing and saying it's nothing, even silently reading a story, then turning around to create a character, writing it into a manuscript, revising it several times, and sending it to the editor. Please be polite and say I am so-and-so, and this is an article I wrote for a certain column.

　　When I was immature, I felt that pursuing a person or a thing took courage. Writing is going against the current to find a person, a world, a kind of comfort. Having grown accustomed to searching, I've discovered that maturity is actually about enduring loneliness and continuously creating your own world, constantly suppressing your curiosity. Loneliness and fear dance joyfully with your courage; they coexist. You must embrace this feeling, not deconstruct it, and not think it's abnormal.

　　Don't be seduced by gimmicky advertisements and desires. Don't stop your solitary yet joyful life. Go deeper, go deeper. The dark forest may house magicians, demons, or gods—anything is possible. Accept it, converse with it, be patient, and don't worry about the journey ahead.

　　What's meant to come will come; find joy in this slow pace. You were in a hurry, so you failed; you were in a hurry, so time became cheap. This is a characteristic of our time. Why do you never cherish what you encounter, and never feel grateful for what you receive? Missing out is never a regret. You've lamented the cruelty of life, but have you ever wondered: you've missed so much, so many opportunities, so focused on the future, the prospects, the progress—have you truly lived? Are you truly living?

　　Compared to animals, whose lives consist only of birth and death, we only have life. To truly live is a wonderful discovery. Death is like a light, floating white balloon to heaven. Life is like heavy earth; how many people can honestly say they've truly lived with their feet firmly on the ground?

　　The cruelty of life is a feeling, truly a feeling. If you live well, a person in love will want to touch their face, feel their skin and warmth, instead of guessing the meaning behind their gaze.

　　A living writer will want to watch their work gradually develop, complete, and refine, instead of worrying about approval, money, data, or the probability of success. A living worker will want to watch their work gradually come to fruition, so conforming to rules and formats, so conforming that you can see your own unique style within it. A living person inevitably spends a large portion of their time with themselves, a time filled with a complex mix of emotions, but "cruel" isn't quite the right word.

　　The harshness of life is often a lament uttered by those who don't take life seriously. We don't want pseudo-worldviews or empty rhetoric; we want concrete methodologies, methods, actions, and our own worldview and values, which we must carry through to the end.

　　I believe a person in their early twenties shouldn't be considering anything outside their own world; thinking about it or looking at it is useless. They need to stand on their own two feet and not let themselves gradually forget how to live. Their soul slips away from their body; they are defeated.

　　Their knees buckle, they kneel, and sigh, "Life is cruel, ah." That sigh, like a light, floating balloon, disappears into the void.