On the edge of a cliff, all logic fails. Only intuition can connect with the world.

I wrote this sentence one night in Lhasa. Finding it now, I feel it can serve as the entry point to this review.

Over these past fourteen months, I’ve been living on the edge of cliffs — almost literally. Encountering ice slopes on ACT mountain trails with drops beside me; every step at the altitude of Genie Sacred Mountain requiring all my strength; riding a motorcycle around the outer circle of Angkor Wat for three days with a splitting headache, yet not stopping. But I also know that those “cliffs” were more often internal. They were the cosmic-level monologues in one’s own mind after getting drunk late at night in a foreign country, with the world fading into the background. They were that night in Shenzhen, standing under DJI’s light beams, feeling like I hadn’t even reached the starting line. They were a certain morning at the end of 2025, suddenly realizing that exploration itself no longer provided enough traction, without knowing where the next fulcrum would be.

So I need to organize this properly. Not for others to see, but to see clearly for myself.

This is 3,614 notes, fourteen months, one person’s attempt to live authentically.

I. Departure: The First Surge, and the Shedding That Followed

I traveled abroad for the first time on February 25, 2024, during my senior year of college.

Flying to Kuala Lumpur, the clouds in the sky looked beautiful. The hazy mainland China was different from here, and I fell in love immediately. The chai fan (chicken rice) in the Chinatown district, digital nomads working remotely in cafes — I thought this lifestyle was really cool. At that time, I was full of passion, overflowing with curiosity, feeling that every corner of the outside world was worth touching.

A year later, on a quiet afternoon at the end of 2025, I wrote these words:

Exploration itself no longer provides enough traction. In the early days of nomadic life, the unfamiliarity of new cities, the loosening of identity, the swelling of possibilities — these were very high-energy experiences during the first year of nomadic living. But after more than a year, the world began to repeat itself. Cities change, but their essential structures are similar. I adapt faster and faster, but the vibrations become smaller and smaller. Where to go no longer automatically equals that I will be changed.

Between these two records lies a whole year, separated by Nepal’s highlands, Vietnam’s rivers, Japan’s wooden architecture, Tibet’s pilgrims, and countless afternoons where I sat alone in cafes in unfamiliar cities, staring blankly at my laptop.

From “surge” to “shedding” — not getting older, but becoming real. I spent a year measuring this world with my body, only to discover that the problem wasn’t outside; the problem was always inside.

II. ACT: Crying on the Mountain for the First Time

Late January to early February 2025, Nepal Annapurna Circuit (ACT). This was my first high-altitude trek.

Starting from Kathmandu, passing through Upper Pisang, Manang, climbing to Tilicho Lake, crossing the highest pass, and descending to Pokhara. The full route took about thirteen days, with the highest point approaching 5,000 meters.

During the trek, I cried twice.

The first time was on the way to Tilicho Lake. That morning I had a fever, carrying a lot of gear, at nearly 5,000 meters altitude, climbing 1,196 meters, descending 1,226 meters. I fell far behind my teammates. Countless times I wanted to give up, not because I couldn’t persist, but because I kept asking myself: What’s the meaning of this? I can’t catch up anymore; by the time I reach Tilicho Lake, they might have already come down as a group. Might as well stop and wait.

A teammate said one sentence: Let’s try our best.

I persisted. If persistence has no meaning, giving up has even less meaning. So I walked and stopped alone, unable to hold back tears under my sunglasses. It was a kind of crying that released self-challenge, growth, and vulnerability simultaneously — I wasn’t crying because of pain; I was crying because I was still walking.

The second time was encountering an ice slope. From Churi Ledar to Thorung Phedi, we didn’t take the bridge; we took the route that met the ice surface. The entire path was ice, with drops beside it. If you slipped on the ice and snow section, you might just stay there forever.

In that moment, I had no way out, and no logic. Only feet.

Later I wrote in my notes: Emotion and reason are not opposites; they are interdependent. Ultimate reason touches the depths of emotion; ultimate emotion contains the logic of reason. But on the ice slope, none of this could be distinguished. You’re just alive, walking step by step, alive.

After the trek ended, I walked away with something. I realized that only when the body is pushed to its limits does the heart truly speak honestly. Those usual judgments of “what kind of person am I” only count at 5,000 meters altitude, with a fever, alone and lagging behind the group.

“Character carried me for so long.” This sentence was my most honest acknowledgment of myself.

III. On the Road: What Am I Really Looking For?

My travel trajectory drawn out is a strange line:

Pokhara, Nepal (2 months) → Kathmandu, Nepal (Holi Festival) → Shenzhen → Jeju Island, South Korea (Olle Trails + Hallasan) → Qingdao, China (1 month) → Shandong coast: Yantai—Weihai—Rizhao → Hakone—Mt. Fuji—Tokyo, Japan → Vietnam: Ho Chi Minh City / Da Lat / Nha Trang / Hoi An / Da Nang / Hue / Hanoi (2 months) → Guangdong: Shenzhen / Guangzhou / Zhanjiang (with mom) → China cross-country: Nanjing—Shanghai—Shaoxing—Jiaxing—Hangzhou—Handan—Shijiazhuang—Xinxiang—South Taihang—Zhengzhou—Shaolin—Luoyang—Huashan—Xi’an → Japan Kansai autumn leaves: Wakayama—Kumano Kodo—Nara—Kyoto → Hong Kong Palace Museum + Fung Shui Hiking Trail → Guangdong: Shenzhen—Dongguan—Chaoshan—Nan’ao Island—Chaozhou—Guangzhou—Wuhan—Suizhou → Sichuan self-drive to Tibet: Chengdu—Jiuzhaigou—Garze—Litang—Sichuan-Tibet Highway—Changdu—Bomi—Linzhi—Lhasa (nearly 1 month)—Shannan—Namtso Lake → Phnom Penh—Siem Reap, Cambodia

Each stop had a reason, and each stop also had another function — when something inside began to accumulate to a certain weight, changing cities could temporarily “suspend” that weight.

This was something I later exposed myself.

At the beginning of 2026, I wrote myself a ruthlessly honest analysis in flomo:

You treat “movement” as a legitimate emotion management tool… When something inside begins to accumulate to a certain weight, changing cities can temporarily “suspend” that weight. New sensory input, new information, new unfamiliarity will temporarily cover up that internal state that hasn’t been processed yet… Movement is your most sophisticated avoidance mechanism, and at the same time, it’s the most authentic source of your growth. It’s both of these things.

This analysis made me pause for a long time.

Because it’s true.

That night of the super moon by Dali’s Erhai Lake, I felt relaxed, thinking life should be like this. But I didn’t stay; I kept moving. Not because Dali wasn’t good enough, but because that feeling was hard to sustain for me. Stopping meant meeting certain things face-to-face.

What those “certain things” are, I’ve never said clearly. But I know they exist.

IV. Pokhara: Kindness Is Contagious

There are moments in travel when the weight is different from others.

That small restaurant in Pokhara — I hadn’t been there for two or three weeks. When I returned, the waitress remembered what I ordered last time. My first reaction was surprise; my second was a warm feeling of being remembered. This small shop sees so many faces coming and going; she remembered what I ordered.

I took the doll from the side of my backpack and gave it to them. The next day, they made me a cup of hot tea.

Later, on the subway, thinking back on this, tears streamed down my face.

That was my most undefended moment of the year. No framework, no analysis, just being moved by a cup of hot tea.

Later in Shanghai, my phone ran out of battery, and I had no bus card. An old grandpa selling roasted sweet potatoes gave me two coins, stuffed a cake into my hand, refused to let me pay him back, and told me to study hard. I cried for the second time on the bus.

These moments, I couldn’t fit them into any “cognitive system.” They weren’t “narrative material”; they were real occurrences, hitting me directly. No explanation needed, just needed to be remembered.

Kindness is truly contagious.

This was the simplest and most important sentence I spoke that year.

V. Vietnam to Japan: The World’s Narrative, and My Own

Summer 2025, I stayed in Vietnam for nearly two months.

The motorbike currents of Ho Chi Minh City, the cafes in the mountains of Da Lat, the sea in Nha Trang, Aunt Ly’s restaurant in Hoi An’s ancient town, Da Nang’s My Khe Beach, the ruins of the Nguyen dynasty palace in Hue, Hanoi’s National Day — Vietnam is a place I can’t summarize in one sentence.

Vietnam showed me a kind of national narrative I had never seen before — bottom-up, grown from people’s suffering and resistance. National Day wasn’t a grand ceremony displaying national power, but a real sense of pride on every street corner, on every person. That pride was because they had survived, because they had won.

At the same time, I was also thinking about how trust is formed. One time in Vietnam, I received 100,000 Vietnamese dong less in change (about 30 RMB). A big brother advised me to focus on more important things and not haggle over small money. Of course I agreed, but I wanted to figure out more: Social trust is not a product of virtue, but of repeated games. The reason mobile payment flourishes in China is not because everyone has become more honest, but because the cost of deception has been redefined.

This idea found another validation in Japan. In July, I flew from Hanoi to Haneda Airport, first going to Nagoya and Shizuoka, then saw Miho no Matsubara and Mt. Fuji. Then Hakone’s Lake Ashi, Owakudani, and finally formally climbing Mt. Fuji — departing from Gotemba Fifth Station, ascending at night, watching sunrise at the summit.

That sunrise was the quietest spectacle I’ve ever witnessed. No cheering, just dozens of climbers from various countries standing in silence, each in their own solitude.

I chose to stay in Japan around the time of the “great prophecy” circulating online, not to verify the apocalypse, but to observe how a civilization coexists with “impermanence.” Japan’s “kuuki wo yomu” (reading the air), that collective emotion of understanding the atmosphere, that tragic sense of pride of “being chosen to bear suffering” — it showed me a very mature way of coexisting with fear: Not solving it, but weaving it into aesthetics.

Ichigo ichie (one time, one meeting), mono no aware (the pathos of things), wabi-sabi — these aren’t escaping death; this is living with death.

In late November, I specifically returned to Japan’s Kansai region to see the autumn leaves. Starting from Wakayama, walking the Kumano Kodo trail for two days, entering Nara — Nara Park’s deer, Todai-ji, Horyuji — then Kyoto’s Kiyomizudera, Fushimi Inari, Ryoanji, Sanjusangendo. That season, all of Kyoto was orange-red, and every tree was counting down.

Horyuji in Nara, Tang Dynasty wooden structure, those buildings discovered by Liang Sicheng and Lin Huiyin. Lin Huiyin wrote a sentence: “The beauty of our country’s architecture lies in its subtlety and structure.” Freedom after constraint — this was the most beautiful thing I felt during that period.

VI. Shandong Coast, Jeju Island, Qingdao: Another Rhythm of Urban Living

From May to early July 2025, I spent a long time along the Shandong Peninsula and the coastal area facing the Korea Strait.

First was Jeju Island in South Korea. Olle Trail routes 1, 2, 6+7, Udo Island, and finally climbing Hallasan. Hallasan is a very different hiking experience — the trail is long, vegetation changes noticeably with altitude, the summit is cold and misty, and you can’t see the majestic view you imagined. But the process itself is clean. No other thoughts, just walking.

Then came a month-long stay in Qingdao. Reef Coffee at Badaguan, chao coffee on Fushan, the solitary cliff cafe at First Beach, Tsutaya Books at Haitian Mall, and the light show on the last day. Qingdao is one of the few cities that made me feel “I could stop here” — sea breeze, German architecture, beer, churches, old and new coexisting in a strange but harmonious way.

Then continuing along the coast: Yantai’s Jinsha Beach and Yangma Island, Weihai, and Rizhao. At Rizhao’s “sea sea coffee,” a single table, the sea right outside the window — I sat there all afternoon.

This stretch of time was the slowest-paced of the entire year. No grand goals, no trying to “get” anything from anywhere. Just watching the sea, drinking coffee, walking, occasionally jotting down a note or two.

I wasn’t sure if this was relaxation or some kind of transition. But it let me know that when you’re still, time looks different.

VII. Prejudice, Subjectivity, and the Self You Can’t Escape

September to November 2025, I intensively observed my own “prejudices.”

During that time, I started from Suizhou, passed through Nanjing and Shanghai, then went to Shaoxing’s Yangming Sacred Place, Hangzhou’s West Lake, then north to Handan and Shijiazhuang, south to Xinxiang, visited South Taihang in Jincheng, then Zhengzhou, Shaolin Temple, Luoyang’s Longmen Grottoes, and finally Huashan and Xi’an.

I stayed in Xi’an for more than ten days: Terracotta Warriors, Xi’an City Wall, Big Wild Goose Pagoda, Qujiang Ruins Park, Xi’an Jiaotong University. That cafe run by deaf and mute people — I visited twice, and each time felt something quietly held in place by that space.

This topic originated very concretely: I wrote a note about a death penalty research experiment — in that experiment, people who strongly supported the death penalty would more seriously criticize “anti-death penalty” research, thinking it was full of loopholes; those opposed to the death penalty did the opposite. The same data read out as two completely different realities for both sides.

I suddenly realized, I do the same thing. I’m also continuously looking for evidence that supports my existing judgments, ignoring counter-evidence.

Prejudice = attachment to self: believing that a certain view is “truth,” not allowing questioning.

Buddhism gave me an interesting perspective here: The core of not killing isn’t a rigid precept, but breaking attachment. Any external evidence, if the mind is attached to a conclusion, then the evidence is just used to “protect one’s own view,” not true observation.

But I discovered another more tangled problem: Most thinking is also just escaping the most core thinking. Most hard work is also just escaping not working hard.

Using thinking, busyness, rational analysis, goal planning… to fill the cracks of existence. This is my main defense mechanism. Not laziness, but another smarter way of escaping.

In October, on a certain afternoon, I wrote a passage that moved me for a long time:

Realizing that I can truly live alone in self-consistency. There will be loneliness, but the heart is still self-consistent. I can truly live very well alone. I won’t join a circle because of loneliness, nor do I need to prove my value or sense of existence.

This is a good thing. But it’s also a warning signal of “the system being too self-consistent.” A heart that is never pierced is hard to be truly moved.

VIII. Tibet: The People Who Were Never in a Hurry to Arrive

February 2026, I started from Wuhan, passed through Chengdu and Jiuzhaigou, and began a self-driving journey through western Sichuan.

From Garze to Litang, then along the Sichuan-Tibet Highway: Mangkang, Zuogong, Bomi, the peach blossom season in Linzhi, and finally Lhasa.

I stayed in Lhasa for nearly a month.

The Tibet Museum, Jokhang Temple, Sera Monastery (twice), the Potala Palace on Lantern Festival, Drepung Monastery, Nanshan Park, Dalong Monastery, Shishilin Monastery, and a solo drive to Namtso Lake — when I arrived at the lake, the sun was just beginning to set, the water was that deep blue, the distant snow mountains were still, and I just stood there for a long time, not taking many photos.

Lhasa showed me a rhythm of life I hadn’t seen before.

People spinning prayer wheels never rush. They walk, stop, some chat by the roadside, some just sit watching the distant mountains. This isn’t slowness, nor laziness, but a kind of ease that comes from knowing what you’re doing and not needing to prove it to anyone.

I stood nearby watching, and suddenly felt a bit envious of that feeling of having somewhere to pray. Not the content of faith, but that clarity of “I know who I’m responsible to.”

Faith is close to what a person finally places their life upon. When you peel away layer after layer — money, relationships, achievements, face, desire, emotions — what remains, that which you believe is absolutely worth relying on, worth obeying, worth living for, that approaches true faith.

I value love, I also value freedom, I also want success, I also speak of conscience, I also care about family, I also hope for dignity.

But when values face conflict, which one is on top?

This question, I carried with me out of Lhasa, and I’m still carrying it.

IX. That Night in Shenzhen: Both Happy and Miserable

December 2025, I was in Shenzhen.

During that stretch I also visited Dongguan, Shantou, Nan’ao Island, Chaozhou, Puning, Jiedong, Guangzhou, and spent a day on Lamma Island in Hong Kong.

Shenzhen’s architecture gives people a sense of insignificance. Standing in front of DJI’s Future City and Tencent’s Penguin Island, I felt like I hadn’t even reached the starting line. Those campuses are so large, so beautiful, so “complete,” creating an illusion in one’s heart: It seems the future has already been occupied by them; there’s no room for me.

I opened AI and shared my feelings. AI said:

Large organizations are good at one thing: compressing uncertainty so individuals can’t feel it. Entrepreneurs are the opposite: you bear all the uncertainty, so you first feel small, powerless, hesitant… Many great products don’t start from “I want to benchmark Apple,” but from a very low, very personal, even somewhat shameful confusion.

That day in flomo, I noted: “Feeling both happy and miserable.”

These five words, I didn’t think much about them at the time. Looking back now, I feel they are the most authentic description of my entire year’s state.

Happy: I’m doing what I think is worth doing; I’ve seen many things; I’m not locked into a certain established track. Miserable: All uncertainty has to be borne by myself; no organizational buffer, no stable coordinates, the sense of insignificance is real.

Both of these things hold true simultaneously. I believe in both of them.

X. S-21 and Angkor Wat: Two Weights of Time

March 2026, Cambodia.

Flying from Chongqing to Kunming, then to Phnom Penh. On my first day in Phnom Penh, I wandered around the Royal Palace and Currency Museum. The second day I went to S-21.

S-21 is called the Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum — originally a school. Building B, a large collective room, severely rusted chains with bloodstains, hanging long, used to frame an entire classroom of people. Single rooms less than a meter wide; people inside couldn’t scream when tortured, because making sounds would be considered conspiracy, leading to greater punishment.

This was a design against biological instinct. When humans suffer severe trauma, the instinct is to scream. This design was meant to destroy human instinct from the root.

In that moment, I felt a very concrete weight. Not compassion, but the silence of “this thing really happened.” This place was about a two-hour drive from Siem Reap’s Angkor Wat, where I would be riding a motorcycle a few days later.

After arriving in Siem Reap, I began riding intensively to visit temples.

Day one, the small circuit: Angkor Wat main temple, Bayon, Preah Khan, Neak Pean, Ta Som, East Mebon, Pre Rup. Day two, sunrise at Angkor Wat again, then Banteay Kdei, Ta Prohm (the one with tree roots), Ta Keo, Thommanon, Chau Say Tevoda, Bayon a second time, Baphuon. Day three, outer circuit: Banteay Srei (the Women’s Fortress), then Beng Mealea — the one I liked most. Unrestored, jungle having pushed apart half the stones; walking through it felt like real archaeology. On the way back, I passed the Roluos Group and stopped at Prasat Bakong.

Three days of splitting headache. Still didn’t stop.

What Angkor Wat gave me wasn’t the “wow, so big” kind of awe, but a deeper confusion followed by a certain reconciliation:

When you understand how a magic trick works, it’s hard to experience the pure wonder that magic brings. Standing in front of Angkor Wat, if it’s merely disenchantment, what you see is a pile of weathered stones, a ruined project built by ancient feudal kings enslaving slaves… But you can also feel the tragic vitality of humanity trying to leave a mark of existence when facing an impermanent universe.

Pure disenchantment makes people cynical and indifferent.

Knowing the principle, yet still being moved. This is a mature way of perceiving, not innocent romanticism, nor cynicism. It’s a narrow path between the two.

I try to keep walking on this path.

XI. OpenClaw and That “Individual Sitting in the Corner”

This year I’m building something called OpenClaw.

If I were to describe it in one sentence: In the AI era, a truly valuable Agent framework should help humans, not replace them.

More specifically: OpenClaw is a multi-agent collaboration framework where each agent can have independent workspaces, independent state directories, independent sessions and authentication, can bind different channel routes, and handle different task scenarios. From Memory System design, to Tool Search on-demand loading, to the evolution rhythm of Orchestration — I’ve thought through almost all these problems this year.

I have a very clear judgment on this direction:

OpenClaw’s single-round subagent isn’t enough; the future will definitely move toward workflow orchestration… But beware of a trap: many AI agent products enter orchestration complexity too early, making the product fragile and hard to use. Evolution rhythm is more important than evolution direction.

This judgment is a technical judgment, a product judgment, and actually also a self-management judgment.

I’ve made the same mistake myself — wanting to design the system too perfectly all at once, ending up accomplishing nothing. First make the single round extremely reliable, then layer orchestration on top. This approach works for OpenClaw, and it works for myself too.

I know what I want to build. I know where it stands in this era. My judgment on AI is clear: AI’s greatest power lies in coordination, not creation. Artificial intelligence doesn’t understand systems; it just copies systems.

But sometimes, I also feel small under Shenzhen’s light beams. There’s nothing wrong with admitting this.

AI that night said that sentence, I’ve always remembered:

True direction often gradually reveals itself when you refuse to become part of them.

This isn’t motivational rhetoric. This is a kind of reality I can accept.

XII. #ObserveMe: The Dissection I Did on Myself

The content that made me most uncomfortable this year, yet also most valuable, was the #ObserveMe series.

It was a mirror I used to examine myself, the ruthless kind.

About independence and “not speaking up”:

You need “to be caught” more than you think… but you never speak up… You’ve never brought that version of yourself in front of another person and said: “I’m having a hard time holding up right now, are you there?” Not because you don’t need to. It’s because you don’t believe that after doing so, the other person will still look at you the same way. This disbelief, you’ve never tested it face-to-face.

I admit this is true. I’m used to handling everything alone, not because I’m strong, but because I’m afraid — making a request, then being rejected, then having to face the feeling of “I’m not worthy enough.”

That afternoon in Kathmandu, the boss said “you’re not welcome.” My first reaction wasn’t to leave, but to say “I can give a tip, and I’ll clean the public area before I leave.” This behavioral pattern — when feeling rejected, immediately starting to prove I’m worthy of acceptance — is hidden in many places in me.

About the “author” perspective and “losing presence”:

You possess powerful “narrative flexibility” and “meta-cognition,” knowing how to transform “pollution sequences” into “redemption sequences”… When you forever maintain the “author’s” sense of detachment, overlooking every street from above, you’re always facing a crisis of “suspension”… You’re too eager to give meaning to what’s happening, to extract models, to find first principles, so that sometimes, you forget to simply be an experiencer and “have a good cry” or “recklessly indulge once.”

Indeed, I seem to have lost such ability; I can’t simply have an experience.

This was the annotation I added myself. The most honest sentence.

About the crack between reason and love:

Reason tends to deconstruct meaning; love requires blind investment… Disable the “Utility” daemon, force yourself to engage in an activity that cannot be monetized, cannot be written into a resume, cannot optimize productivity… Love is hidden in redundancy.

The system is too perfect, too self-consistent. The more perfect the logical closed loop, the less light can shine in. Love is usually irrational; it’s a system bug.

When I wrote this passage, my heart actually felt a bit cold. I’m good at understanding, but sometimes I’m not good at feeling. I’m good at analyzing others, but sometimes it’s easier than analyzing myself.

About subjectivity:

I’m looking for subjectivity in this part.

This was one of the shortest sentences I wrote in early 2026. Short, but heavy.

For a whole year, I’ve been asking: When all the external narratives are peeled away, who am I? On what do I finally place my life?

I asked AI; AI said: Authentic Subjectivity.

Refusing to be defined by labels, refusing to be coerced by the environment, pursuing that feeling and judgment power that cannot be deprived, originating from within oneself — to personally touch the boundaries of this world.

I put a question mark after that sentence: Is it?

To this day, this question mark remains. But it no longer makes me so anxious. Perhaps faith isn’t an answer, but a continuous way of questioning.

XIII. Not “Game” Enough, and That Sense of Scarcity

For a while, I felt I wasn’t “game” enough.

Thought for a long time, searching for that missing piece. Wrote: I haven’t found myself. Self relies on past narratives; reconstructing one’s identity requires one’s own subjectivity.

But then one afternoon, I suddenly had a bit of a realization:

Life is a process of discovering oneself. When one feels a sense of scarcity, it’s precisely realizing that a new self has been discovered… The sense of scarcity isn’t about seeking from outside… Then life is a game, constantly learning oneself. Information in the world is one’s own nourishment, constantly growing, obtaining new information and methods to understand and discover this world… Our goal is ultimately to play this game well, to feel comfortable in the present moment.

This passage, when I wrote it, I truly felt enlightened.

Not because I found the answer, but because I found a way to accept not having an answer.

The sense of scarcity itself is a signal, not a problem. It’s saying: Here’s a piece of yourself you haven’t discovered yet. Go find it.

XIV. Death: The Perspective That Makes the Present Clear

March 24, 2026, on a certain night in Siem Reap, I wrote the clearest passage about the question of meaning this entire year:

Understanding death is to let us better feel the present… Death provides an ultimate perspective for examination, used to strip away noise imposed from outside. It forces us to honestly face ourselves, to question whether current actions and cognition truly align with inner pursuits. But what truly gives life meaning is our sincere response to our past and present within finite boundaries.

Death as an endpoint cannot reversibly define the value of the life process, but it can help us ask ourselves: What I’m doing now, is it what I consider meaningful?

This question is the one I’ve asked myself most often this year. Different scenarios, different forms, but the core is the same: Is this real? Is this what I want?

The answer isn’t always clear every time. But the questioning itself is already a way of life.

XV. What’s Left for the Next Year

This year has ended, but some things haven’t ended. They’re hanging, left for the next stage to touch.

One: Allow yourself to stop.

I’m good at departing, not good at staying. But some things only happen during staying — deep relationships, truly rooted projects, trust that grows slowly. Flow has given me breadth, but sometimes I need depth. Not stopping forever, but staying somewhere long enough for things to truly happen.

Two: Speak up.

I know I need to be caught. I never speak up because I don’t believe that after doing so, the other person will still look at me the same way. This disbelief, I haven’t tested it face-to-face yet. Next year, I want to try testing it once.

Three: Allow the system to be illuminated by light.

My cognitive system is too self-consistent. Good things are understood as “reasonable,” bad things are put into causal chains, everything can be explained, thus everything can hardly truly pierce me. I need some “meaningless” time, some experiences not transformed into cognitive material, some true presence, not observation.

Four: OpenClaw and YouMind, answer that most fundamental question.

Who are these systems helping, and doing what. I have technical judgment, I have product sense, but that more fundamental vision — why this, and not something else — needs to be stated more clearly. Not for others, but for myself to find the way back when confused.

Five: Taste is not about what you can possess, but what you can give up.

This is what I wrote in the summer of 2025, my understanding of taste. It’s also my aesthetic standard for my entire lifestyle: subtract, subtract, subtract. Leave what’s truly important, give up what’s kept only because “should like it.”

Postscript: This Is a Game I Didn’t Plan to Win

In February 2025, I came down from the mountain in Nepal, tanned myself into a local, cried twice, returned to Pokhara, and ate a bowl of Dal Bhat.

I don’t know if the me at that time would have thought that a year later, I would be sitting in a charity cafe in Siem Reap, Cambodia, slowly organizing this year’s events into words.

Probably not. The me at that time still thought the next stop was where the answer would be.

Now I know there’s no such thing as “the next stop is where the answer is.” The answer isn’t in places; it’s in the questioning. It’s in your willingness to look back again and again, to see what you’ve done, what you haven’t done, what you want, what you’re avoiding.

3,614 notes, none gave a final answer. But each one was an attempt to be honest with myself.

That’s enough.

This year, I was honest.

@cubxxw · flomo notes 3,614 entries 2025.01 — 2026.03 Written in Siem Reap, Cambodia, March 25, 2026