Illusory words, real life.

     My old friend called around 8 or 9 pm last night, asking for a birthday greeting for someone's 80th birthday. It wasn't too difficult; I figured I could just say what I needed to say at the banquet.

    I wrote a few lines carefully and called my friend, who said it was okay. A few minutes later, she called again, saying it wasn't suitable. It turned out she was writing it for someone else at their request. After her repeated requests for revisions, I revised it over twenty times and called more than twenty times. I suddenly realized that people who ask old colleagues to write birthday greetings are really hard to please.
    To be honest, the writing wasn't great, but it wasn't too bad either. I just couldn't understand this person. Even if the birthday person was a veteran of the Korean War, a retired cadre of considerable standing, they wouldn't go to such lengths to please someone just for a birthday meal. The sentiment should be enough. Near midnight, my friend called again, but I was already feeling quite sleepy. I told her it wasn't that I didn't want to help, but I had run out of ideas and needed to sleep.
    Clear expression is paramount in any written expression, and literary flair is also necessary. However, the respect shown by a friend's friend to the elderly man made me question things. If the octogenarian were an ordinary person, would he have acted this way? Let's not just talk about him; perhaps we, born into this world, all have moments of varying degrees of respect for others, consciously or unconsciously.
    I sighed softly, feeling oppressed by the self-righteous complexity of human nature. Is servility innate or acquired? When we try to please others, we simply want more tangible benefits in return—money, power, and even the various emotions of love.
    Yet, feelings are superseded from the birthday itself. My mind was filled with birthday wishes all night, but I lack the talent to write pleasing words. Thinking of this, I chuckled. I remembered having dinner with some friends yesterday. My girlfriend is a poet, a very confident poet, preparing to write a thousand poems in the style of "Xi Jiang Yue." Whenever I see the words "Xi Jiang Yue," I think of her. What a lovely little woman! Her poetry became a form of uninhibited expression, not for pleasing others, but for finding rest for her own heart. Such a talented woman must have a stable livelihood to indulge so freely in her beloved words. Perhaps, upon reflection, I belong to this category. I can live a mediocre life, I have an interest in money, but not a strong one; I'm easily satisfied with material things before pursuing the spiritual world—that's all.
    Another friend returned from Shanghai; I met him before the New Year. He's also a writer, but one who prioritizes survival. He transferred his love of writing to his life, using it to make a living. This is a great wisdom, especially for men; if a man's life becomes less than ideal because of writing, he'll always be ridiculed. That's how the world sees it. So, this friend uses his talent for writing to make a living. This is certainly a wise way to earn money.
    However, my friend said he would be taking one of his mentors with him this time, which made me reflect. Because in my heart, everyone is just an ordinary mortal in this world. Lofty ideals are mostly just talk; putting them into practice is difficult. Even family members, let alone a mentor, will have conflicts after a while when faced with money. This is a fundamental flaw in human nature, and I hope my well-intentioned friend won't have any unpleasantness with his teacher over this. Doing good with good intentions is the right path; doing bad things with good intentions always carries a sense of regret. Here, I can only wish this friend all the best.
    My mother and sister-in-law went to the temple today. I found it quite interesting. These past few years, I haven't liked fortune-telling, not because I'm afraid that fortune-telling will diminish my enjoyment, but because I dislike the inability to avoid it. In a world where fate is predetermined, can I escape the entanglements of fortune and misfortune? Since I can't avoid them, it's better not to know beforehand. That way, my mind will be more at peace. Those who bring up fortune-telling aren't unrelated to literature; these supposedly enlightened people make a lot of money telling fortunes during the first month of the lunar year. If someone says that so-and-so will have a disaster this year and how to avert it with money, who wouldn't agree? Those yellow silk talismans and amulets inscribed with words are a kind of peace of mind that can be bought with money. Such auspicious symbols represent a different kind of real life.
    There are several paths to happiness. One is to strive for happiness; another is to pursue a fabricated happiness; and a third is the dreamlike happiness of wanting but not doing.
    Is writing a part of the spiritual life of dreams? Or is it subordinate to the reality of life? This depends on whom the writing serves. It seems unfair to call man-made writing illusory, but writing that balances truth and illusion ultimately expresses something truly unique.