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's called "procrastination," it naturally isn't something to celebrate. Moreover, since I can't 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 currently tormenting me, delaying me, and hindering me from writing them down. This, in turn, allows me to slowly talk about this almost year-long "unease."
When playing by the seaside, it's hard to resist tightly grasping a handful of fine, smooth sand, applying pressure, and then watching it crumble and flow down 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 could easily be brushed off. So, on the day after an important version was released, after a brief, stable chat of less than fifteen minutes, I officially became a free agent.
Thus, the first two months of the year were actually the most comfortable time. After spending a few days eating and drinking with friends, and (maliciously) complaining about things, I gave myself a long vacation.
Although the year-end was approaching, I wasn't in a hurry to return home. Winter in Guangzhou isn't cold; compared to the humid and hot summer, it's actually more suitable for going out. On sunny days, I enjoy sleeping 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 quite reaches my eyes. Then I skip breakfast, casually throw on a jacket, and head out to hike. 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, yet it has become a small regret). Conversely, coming down the mountain is much more interesting. By this time, I'm usually sweating profusely, and when the sun is warm, I take off my jacket, 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 things become unimportant. 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 time for the New Year. This was rather ordinary. The North doesn't have many ancestral halls or temples, and since my parents moved to a small town after getting married, it has mostly just been the three of us preparing a few dishes. Although there were some surprises this year, it didn't affect the atmosphere much. In fact, apart from the vegetable-selling aunt downstairs, who is used to gossiping, no words related to "unemployment" were mentioned at all. Thus, the Lantern Festival passed quietly, and before I knew it, March had arrived. I declined my parents' request to stay a few more days and returned to Guangzhou to start looking for a job.
I must say, those two weeks were quite dark. The job market has been poor for the past two years, so with a gradually overwhelming sense of "unease," the first seven days were a whirlwind of applications, communications, preparations, and interviews. After some hustle, I finally secured an offer that I felt was decent 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 heading to another city, it should have been a move, but it turned into a process of decluttering. The two stacks of unread books and magazines by my bedside, gift boxes from past holidays, some snacks, and even clothes were hastily discarded; I gave my main computer, which I brought from Shanghai, along with the monitor I bought later, to a colleague; and for the remaining items that were too good to throw away, I packed them into a few boxes and sent them back home. I gathered my colleagues and friends for a proper farewell dinner, then shouldered a backpack and carried a bag of miscellaneous items onto the plane. 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 exiting the subway, the continuous drizzle made me shiver. I spent the afternoon renting a place in this city, which I only knew by name and a few streets, and in the evening, I bought a few essentials. Then, in the middle of the night, I woke up to find 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 can 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 with each step. Every morning, I squeeze into the subway, swaying occasionally with the other crowded commuters as the train rushes forward. In this swaying, I lose my sense of direction, only able to follow the lines on the electronic screen along a predetermined route, arriving at the expected intersection.
I like to wake up at a fixed time, wash up, and then head out, which means I appear at the subway entrance 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 uniformly made steamed buns, read a couple of chapters of a novel, and then start my workday. This similar daily routine may seem bland, but it also brings a sense of tranquility, allowing me to forget the trivial matters.
In these plain days, nine months passed just like that. The unease about life, after being washed away by hundreds of days of routine, has become so thin that it has lost its shape, 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. But regarding what the future holds, I still can't help but feel a mix of unease and anticipation.
In short, I hope to muster some spirit for tomorrow.