Overly delving into one thing may not be a good thing, especially when what you’re studying has already been thoroughly researched by others, and you clearly know you can’t push the boundaries further than they have. At that point, you start to feel like your life is being wasted.

Every day, I write down a lot of things, recording a vast amount of work and study notes—though it’s more accurate to call them records of pitfalls. Gradually, I’ve come to realize that such efforts don’t hold much meaning. If they’re not done well enough, they won’t provide even the slightest help in real life.

Lately, whenever I have free time, I find myself pondering the meaning of life. If I were to voice these thoughts, people might find them childish—something more suited to middle or high school students. The difference is, back then, I wondered what kind of person I should become for life to be meaningful, whereas now I question whether what I’m currently doing has any meaning at all, and what meaningful things even look like.

Obsessive behaviors are meaningless. Obsessing over games is meaningless, over videos is meaningless, and even over reading is meaningless. Obsession means there’s no room left to think about anything else. Like the various sensors I’ve been tinkering with these past few days—I also find them meaningless, unless I later become an inventor or find a use for them.

I believe meaningful things are creative endeavors, processes with inputs and outputs, much like computer programs. This requires us to reflect on what we’re experiencing, think critically afterward, and then produce our own output. Only then can everything become meaningful.

If a person’s life is like writing a novel, it can’t just be a random jumble of words from a dictionary. A novel has plotlines, a main thread, and a story. What it embodies is the human spirit, shining anew with every reader it encounters. The goal of life should be to steer our living environment toward a better direction—starting with ourselves, then the people around us, then those in our country, and finally all of humanity. We can’t aspire to anything nobler than this. We stop here; we don’t extend our help to figures like Jesus or Buddha to improve their lives.

Thus, when I realize I might be doing something meaningless, I feel disheartened. Pursuing a master’s degree feels this way, and a Ph.D. should be no different. If I’m not genuinely exploring the unknown or correcting humanity’s misconceptions, then I’d consider all these years of study unworthy—even if I ultimately earn a degree. The purpose of this piece lies here.

However, there is one benefit: the composure and experience gained in school have allowed me to rise above my past self, to think from a higher perspective—to consider what society needs and what I can contribute.

I see myself as the same kind of person as Mr. Wang Xiaobo—at least, that’s what I believe. If Mr. Wang had any objections, he no longer has the chance to voice them—I was born the year he passed away. The heavens always seem to envy talent prematurely. Wang Xiaobo is my favorite writer. Unlike other geniuses or philosophers, he feels more like a guide for the youth. Because of him, I developed a deep curiosity about figures like Russell, Duras, and Kafka. Perhaps it’s just that fate gave him too little time. If he were still working today, he might have become a… well, I’m not sure, but he would undoubtedly still be shining, still offering his witty yet sincere words to share his inner world with everyone.

I’m fortunate to be an audience member, but the strange feeling is that it’s as if I’ve seen myself—or rather, as if I’ve been awakened. Describing it this way is undoubtedly flattering myself, but if my embellishments lead more people to discover Mr. Wang, then it’s worth it. Due to his writing style, his works were never destined for textbooks or widespread recognition. Though he lived in his era, he existed parallel to it.

I, too, want to write my life into a novel that people would love to read. But if I were to seriously pursue writing, I’d be sorely lacking—most of all, in logical coherence. I’d like to express my inner world, but every time I see my messy, disorganized words, I’m overcome with shame.

But I still have to keep writing. It’s fine to sell poor writing cheaply—modern people wouldn’t use stiff paper to wipe their behinds, after all. If, by chance, someone engrossed in reading happens to see it and, after finishing, criticizes me, then the value of this lousy writing will have been realized. At least the obsessed reader might start rethinking and break free from their obsession.