Procrastination is never a good habit. However, since it has not yet been classified as a "symptom," there must be some other factors to account for this phenomenon. And since it is called "procrastination," it is naturally not something to celebrate. Moreover, since I cannot achieve "self-reflection three times a day," the reasons for my procrastination from the previous year have long been forgotten. Fortunately, the reasons for this year are tormenting me, delaying me, and preventing me from writing them down. This allows me to slowly talk about this almost year-long "unease."
When playing by the sea, it is hard to resist tightly grasping a handful of fine sand, applying pressure, and then watching it crumble and continuously slip away through the channel formed by my wet fingers, leaving only a thin layer of sand stuck to my palm. I remember a couple of years ago, my department was in a similar situation. After finally parting ways with the backend colleagues at the end of the year, what remained was easily shaken off. So, on the day after an important version was released, after less than fifteen minutes of stable chatting, I officially became a free agent.
Thus, the first two months of the year were the most comfortable time. After spending a few days eating and drinking with people, and (maliciously) complaining with friends, I gave myself a long vacation.
Although the year-end was approaching, I was not in a hurry to return home. Winter in Guangzhou is not cold; compared to the humid and hot summer, it is more suitable for going out for a walk. On sunny days, I like to sleep in until the morning, when the sun is high in the sky—after all, the windows of my Loft-style apartment are small, and the sunlight never shines enough to reach my eyes. Then I skip breakfast, casually throw on a coat, and go hiking. I don't like walking along the small paths through the village, nor do I ever roll my eyes at the speeding electric scooters on the sidewalk, so I always take the bus nearby, glance at the tunnel construction notice, and then take a detour? Head into the mountains (this tunnel has been under construction since I arrived in Guangzhou, and the expected completion time coincidentally aligns with my departure. Such a coincidence, however, has become a small regret). Conversely, coming down the mountain is much more interesting. By this time, I am usually sweating profusely, and when the sun is warm, I take off my coat, wrap it around my arm a few times to secure it, and then choose a path back based on the map. As for which exit to come out of, how far to walk, or whether to take a detour... these are not important at all. I just tell myself that the Earth is round, and I can always find my way back.
I played like this for about twenty days without any ups and downs, and then it was the New Year. This was rather unremarkable. The north does not have many ancestral halls or temples, and since my parents moved to a small town after getting married, it has basically just been the three of us preparing a few dishes. Although there were some surprises this year, there was no significant impact on the atmosphere. In fact, aside from the vegetable-selling aunt downstairs who is used to gossiping, not a single word related to "unemployment" was mentioned from start to finish. Thus, we casually celebrated the Lantern Festival, and before I knew it, March arrived. I declined my parents' request to stay a few more days and returned to Guangzhou to start looking for a job.
I have to say, those two weeks were quite dark. The poor job market over the past two years is not something that can change overnight, so holding onto the increasingly overwhelming feeling of "unease," the first seven days were a whirlwind of applications, communications, preparations, and interviews. After a lot of hustle, I finally secured an offer that I felt was acceptable on the Friday of the second week, and I hurriedly wrapped up this urgent, silent, yet still quite stressful battle. What followed was the winding down in Guangzhou.
Since I was going to another city, I was supposed to move, but in the end, it turned into a process of decluttering. The two stacks of books and magazines by my bedside that I hadn't finished reading, gift boxes from past holidays, some snacks, and even clothes were hastily discarded; my main computer that I brought from Shanghai, along with the monitor I bought later, was given to colleagues; the remaining items that were too good to throw away were packed into a few boxes and sent back home. I gathered my colleagues and friends for a proper farewell meal, and then I set off with a backpack and a bag of miscellaneous items to catch my flight. I can only say that I was fortunate that my belongings were minimal; otherwise, without a suitcase, checking in would have been a hassle.
April in Shanghai was still a bit chilly. After getting off the subway, the continuous drizzle made me shiver. I spent the afternoon renting a place in this city that I was only familiar with by name and a few streets. In the evening, I bought a few essentials, and then in the middle of the night, I found my phone still stuck on the lonely payment screen.
In this not-so-new city, a new life began again in a rush.
A trip that could be taken at a moment's notice sounds enticing. However, a new life that starts as soon as it begins is always mixed with a bit of unease. The streets are filled with unfamiliar shops, and the neighborhoods surrounded by iron fences always feel lonely and quiet, especially at night when the dim streetlights hide among the bushes, casting faint shadows that make one hesitate to take a step forward. Every morning, I squeeze into the subway, swaying along with the other crowded passengers as the train rushes by. In this swaying, I lose my sense of direction, only able to follow the lines on the electronic screen to take a predetermined route, appearing at the expected intersection.
I like to wake up at a fixed time, wash up, and then head out, which means I arrive at the subway station at most two or three minutes apart each day. Then I buy the exact same breakfast, slip into the small building through the same tile gaps as the day before, sit down, chew on the pre-packaged buns that are consistently made, read a couple of chapters of a novel, and then start my workday. This similar routine may seem bland, but it also brings a sense of tranquility, allowing me to forget about trivial matters.
In these plain days, nine months passed just like that. The unease about life has long faded into shape under the routine of hundreds of days, even breeding a hint of compulsion. Work, on the other hand, has been quite uneventful—this is perhaps the most familiar aspect of my new life. However, I still cannot escape a sense of unease and anticipation about what the future holds.
In short, I hope to muster up some spirit for tomorrow.