I often read history late at night. I watch heroes stream by like fish crossing a river, and dynasties rise and fall like tides. One page is filled with prosperity and boldness, the next turns into smoke and ash. Those names are dazzling, almost blinding; yet after the brightness, silence arrives. The longer I look, the more I start to wonder: what can our struggles and convictions really leave behind?

Later I started reading poetry. A poet’s fate feels like a mirror: some carry ideals to the edge, some turn all their hopes into short lines during turbulent times. The lines are light, as light as a falling leaf, but they cross time and land on my desk today. I realized many people were not crushed by a single blow; they were pushed by their era, pushed to a place even they did not recognize.

Then I lifted my eyes to the stars. Humanity explores the universe and searches for life beyond Earth—it’s a magnificent undertaking. But when I pull the lens back to a larger scale—the boundless sea of stars, the slow drift of time—we are not that different from dust. When that smallness hit me, it felt like a hollow opening inside: every narrative of meaning seemed diluted. I grew lost and even began to doubt what effort was for.

In that confusion, I suddenly understood Liu Bang better. I never cared much for him before; he didn’t seem “perfect,” nor “noble.” But the more I read, the more I saw his rare pragmatism: he could bend or stand, advance or retreat, fight fiercely or withdraw when he had to. He did not cling to a rigid self-image of “how one must be,” but chose to live through change. The phrase “nothing is absolutely required, nothing is absolutely forbidden” gained weight in my heart—it isn’t going with the flow; it’s knowing your boundaries and walking the road within them.

That loosened me a little. I don’t have to force myself into being “someone who must be impressive.” I don’t have to compress life into a single line for the sake of being “right.” Maybe meaning isn’t something to prove; it’s something to experience. History may close its curtain, but we still have to walk through it. The universe may be vast, but every breath and heartbeat remains real.

I also realized I couldn’t keep sitting alone among books. Even the sharpest thinking, without the touch of the body and the feedback of reality, is just drawing circles in the air. I need to walk outward—toward mountains and seas, streets and crowds, the sound of rain on an umbrella, a glance exchanged with a stranger. Even buying a hot meal at the market or stopping to smell flowers by the road does more to confirm: I am alive, and I still have a direction.

So I decided to bring my gaze back from the sky to people. I read history not to be discouraged, but to understand. I watch the stars not to deny meaning, but to cherish it. I read poets not to rehearse sorrow, but to learn honesty. I will keep thinking, but no longer sink into it alone. I will step outside, carry the waves inside me into reality, and let my steps answer the questions that keep circling in my mind.

That’s why I wrote this piece:

• Not to give myself an answer, but a direction.
• Not to prove I’ve understood the world, but to admit I’m still learning.
• Not to escape my inner life, but to let life illuminate it.

If you are in a similar fog, I hope you can, like me, take one step outward—even if it’s just a small step. The world will respond in its own way—not necessarily grand, but real enough.