I don’t have to live in extremes. I don’t have to take on the world alone. It’s okay to depend on others, to say, I am worthy of being held. It’s okay to choose the easier path. To surrender to comfort, even if it’s temporary. Especially because it’s temporary.

So I lean in. I shoot my shot, and think I had it. I used to, every day, wake up thanking god I was alone, now I just wake up and thank god.

After all, we define ourselves in opposition, not in concordance. What is life without a bit of death, what is success without a bit of challenge, what is harmony without a bit of chaos? What is certainty if it’s never been shaken by doubt?

Every pleasant memory is a lamp against the darkness should misfortune bring nightfall. Reminder of the faith you’d convinced yourself of that one scorching afternoon six years ago soaked in a fortuitousness that’s almost too good to be true. The bottomless mimosa lingers at the tip of your tongue.

Meet someone, kiss someone. Love someone, lose someone. How do we record history for our future self? How do we project from now into eternity? How do we preserve the vibrations of emotions through time? What can we do but pen it all down.

Chooses to believe, despite being in an absurd world turning to shit. Chooses this life, despite her success and wealth in many other universes. Chooses to "be here, with you," despite knowing everything we do might get washed away by every other possibility.

I stand amidst the ambiguity, holding on to my stone. The adventures have only made me more sure of why I started, more certain of my way. I now know the world is much more alike than it is different. The unknown doesn't tickle me so. I am still at peace.

I’m sure, in fact, I know magic is happening. Politics is happening. Sex in the City is happening, in real life, in one of those squares of light in the sea of squares of light. But I am not witnessing, uncovering, or holding. None of those belong to me.

I wish I had the chance to scribble on Grandma’s hand and blow onto her forehead. Put a spell on her, keep her here a little longer, ease the discomfort from weeks of illness, make sure she wasn’t scared during those nights alone on the hospital bed.

The gift of not knowing is hope. Thinking back to the moment when I got shivers while listening to Long Live in my bunk bed in suburban Los Angeles just after coming to America — I didn’t know what was ahead of me then — but I can still feel the hope that filled my iPod, my bedroom, the little bits of that immigrant heart.

One day, I got drenched in the Spring rain on the way back, with osmanthus oil still lingering in my hair from when I put it on after swimming. It teleported me to Fall in Shanghai. Wrong season, I know; not that I’ve ever been to Shanghai in the Fall, I know. But this, somehow, felt exactly how it’s supposed to be.

I didn’t want to cry — it felt like a self-important gesture, crossing a line of sorts, assuming the place of someone close to him. But even with this distance, for someone who I’ve simply admired from our simple interactions, I felt my defenses crumbling. Death broke the truce in a smug triumph.

For many of my friends, pop-rock was a phase that came and went. I guess not for me. I’m not exactly sure why the bombastic melodies and edgy lyrics still have such a hold on me, but they do. In both Chinese and English, they do.

I always wondered if anyone actually reads these rambles of mine. After all, my writing isn't particularly literary. Does it matter if it's perceived? Does it matter who reads these?

But is perception reality? Our knowledge of reality is grounded in our perception, so what if there is no material reality beyond our perception? That’s what Blow-Up led me to think about.

It really is tragic, when one day you feel like you are finally ready to free the grand romantic in you, but the romantic in you is gone after many years of wear and tear, struggling and crawling in the dire reality.

It’s like when Car Seat Headrest sings “I’m coming up short in a life worth nothing.” This life is not necessarily worth anything. “I think you knew what loving to run towards something can do to a man.” It’s the pursuit that is unhealthy.

I think of the quote that I will probably never completely understand: “The big words from those ages when as yet happening was visible are not for us. Who talks of victory? To endure is all.” Grandeur is not guaranteed in life. The epic forces of light and darkness might never come into play.

Finally, don’t forget that “the harder working the luckier.” Having put in the hard work means being better prepared for chance occurrences, for slips in the wheel of fortune, which, when aggregated, roughly equals to being luckier.

I can't say that Squid Game was a complete waste of time because at the very least it was a social exercise the way I watched it with friends in Boston, but it’s pretty damn close to one.

"Gray November, I’ve been down since July," sings Taylor Swift — in reality, it’s more like “Gray December, I’ve been down since January.”

After all, it's not just you and me who are not going anywhere: "no one's going anywhere," and as Lana famously said: "the culture is lit."

The quarantine has made me realize that, in these tumultuous times, monotonous routine contains familiar joy. Having a roof over your head and being able to see your family every day — so much to love already.

It was cold. I was alone. My bags were drenched. But I enjoyed having the streets to myself — it felt regal, and I liked how the lights were blurred by downpour, then reflected by puddles, which are then shattered by droplets. Light On reminds me of the rain that night.

You cannot decide what other people think of you, or what they see in you, but you can change how you act. It is our own responsibility to lead a genuine life, to be earnest.

You realize the planet is filled to its brink with extraordinary people doing all sorts of things. That’s why you would, while traversing the vast and lonely world, reminisce more furiously about the suburbia.

What was the 2010s? Late night procrastination, chilling watching television? Walking to Starbucks while skipping ROTC training? Crying when opening the college admissions portal, crying with the shower running only to be heard by your parents anyway?

I guess the lesson Lover brings is knowing ourselves. Understanding our own fragility makes us more accepting of others. Understanding our own defects makes us braver and more honest.

What we have to understand, is that although Rachel is modeled as the 21st century Cinderella, the plot should not be confined to the imagination of Cinderella.

There may never be an answer to the metaphysically posed yet historically diametrically answered question of the elusive meaning of existence, because, after all, once a week is quite enough to dine with one’s own relations, and the truth is rarely pure and never simple.

Sometimes, the meniality of daily chores and the pressure from others can make life feel like pure hell. Sometimes, the anxiety of simply being alive carry unbearable burdens. But as Russian Doll reminds us, we are not alone in this world. We still have each other, can find each other, and save each other.

So don't become discouraged when the suffocating reality comes crashing down. Sometimes dreams are broken to make space for new ones.

They might not have been ready to wholeheartedly love each other, but they did wholeheartedly need each other, help each other, and succeed for each other. And as such, despite the regrets and what-ifs, who can say that a not-happily ever after is not splendid as well?

What she never considers is that, perhaps, she doesn’t need to be the cool girl, and Nick doesn’t have to be a model husband. Her life can be saved from the lies. But no, that’s not what the Gone Girl wants. Truth? Happiness? Who cares. It’s only for show anyway.

So many melodrama will end up being supercuts. So many hard feelings will lead to exclamation of what the fuck are perfect places. Perhaps this youth is imperfect, but its stubborn, tenacious, yet sinister vitality is precious and impossible to compound.

They were both convinced that they found each other’s secret. But did they? They believed what they wanted to believe. In other words, they wanted to be fooled.