寫在四分之一世紀末 As a Quarter Century Closes

儘管地球確實是圍繞著太陽又轉了一圈，但很多事情并不是有一個確切的起始點。

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在離開檳城前偶然碰到了坐落在Hin Bus Depot的很有名的島讀書店，這個文創區一開始也并不在做過的攻略範圍裏，而是在從蘭卡威落地檳城機場后一位華人Grab司機從檳榔嶼前往大陸的橋上面提到，也後來在Design Anthology上的某一期看到。由於時間緊凑，我在一家專做手工繪本的店家等待給剛買的記事本做燙金字體的間隙在園區四處走走，發現了由Alm Architect改造和運營的Coex空間旁的島讀書店，又恰好看到那本又一山人在2019年出版的隨筆。雖然價錢遠遠超過香港的發售價格，但秉承著寧可買貴也不錯過的心態買下了最後一本。書的底部也印滿了字，其中有一句寫著“for everything in life, there is no clear starting point, and there will be no absolute ending." 兩天後我出現在廈門的退化公園，是一個建在居民六層平臺的戶外空間。在這極具活力和創意的小花園裏碰到了一隻耳書店，裏面挂著一本封面寫著"Penang"（檳城）的小誌，翻開一看正是和島讀書店的創始人共同創作的一本食物民俗誌。這種奇妙的連接消除了地理的隔閡，被一些看不見的繩索串聯起來。

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以前我會用月臺和列車作類比，好像人生都是一條條軌道。再後來我用滾雪球來類比我在做的事情，憧憬有一天這個雪球可以自己滾起來。但一直都沒有滾起來。我才發現其實不是一個從山頂往山下推的綫性過程，哪有那麽容易就利用到地心引力。

大概在四年前列車即將駛出前瞥見了不遠處的湖泊和樹林，慢慢地從乘客變成了划船的人，脚下的車廂地板變成了緩慢的溪流。在一片霧氣彌漫的密林濕地裏划船，每次只能看得到附近的一些東西，全憑樹林裏不遠處的聲響和氣味去辨別方向。爲什麽不是航海呢？可能航海需要一個羅盤，而湖泊和河道有大致的流向，怎麽划都不會被一望無際的空白吞沒。

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直白的文字難以客觀表述感受，類比和通感往往更能產生新的解讀空間。在圖像創作的過程裏有時候會排斥客觀的影像，覺得太過直接，一覽無餘，所以很多時候我會把它歸爲記錄，待以整理加工產生超越單張圖像本身的信息量。

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在一開始拿著自己的作品參加書展的時候總是和人談起創作動機，以及是不是全職在做這些。面對整張桌子擺滿的印刷品有時恍惚這些不以盈利爲目的的“課外活動”真的是我做的嗎？僅靠熱愛和原始的想要創作和表達的願望壓制住了質疑的聲音。對我來講必須有一個表達的出口，乏味的日常和工作會讓我覺得必須做點什麽。於是才有了觀察記錄創作輸出。每天都在接收新的信息，這些涌進來的點子有時候像是帆布袋裏的隨身物品，你知道它在裏面，但是怎麽掏也翻不出來。那就越塞越多，直到有一天堆滿了摸到了，一股腦倒在桌子上再挑挑揀揀，好像那些不相干的物件也是拼圖的一部分。這個拼圖不是說我要拼一個什麽出來，而是剛好手上的這些東西組成了一個圖案。在這四處采摘的過程裏，可能有很多種好吃的水果和菌菇，而順著生長的方向會發現更多同類型的漿果，直到某天發現袋子裏的漿果數量足夠做一瓶果醬了，那就做唄。

如果說信息繭房是算法喂給你的，那麽四處走走去搜羅和接觸其他事物去打造一個開放的信息泡泡是必要的。透明的，可增長的，向外的，這種隨機性和主動吸收的姿態才可以超越地域限制，不必像一棵樹固定在一個地方，也許是長了腿的樹。

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本來想從紀實的方向寫寫今年做了什麽，去了哪裏，感受了什麽，在做什么，將會做什麽。但又不是寫年終報告，羅列數字和名稱搞得像各大平臺總結你的年終數據一樣，聽了個鐘頭的音樂，看了多少部電影，去了幾次健身房，體重又長了幾斤，什麽都説了又什麽都沒有說。數據的堆砌只是結繩記事，連續的時間沒有節點，好多事情也不是一年兩年就可以做好，回顧十二個月不如回顧當下的狀態。

最近每每送出祝福時，我都少以快樂為後綴。快樂是短暫的多巴胺，而自由是可持續的感受。祝大家不論身在何處都可以向輕快靠近，新年更自由。

While it’s true the Earth has completed another orbit around the sun, many experiences don’t have a clear starting point.

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Before leaving Penang, I happened upon the well-known Island Bookstore at Hin Bus Depot. This creative district wasn’t originally on my itinerary—it was recommended by a Chinese Grab driver during the ride from Penang Island to the mainland after I flew in from Langkawi, and I later saw it featured in an issue of DesignAnthology. Short on time, I wandered around the area while waiting for gold foil lettering on a notebook I’d just bought from a handmade notebook shop. That’s when I noticed the bookstore beside the Coex space, renovated and run by Alm Architect. By chance, I also spotted a collection of essays published by Anothermountainman in 2019. Though priced much higher than in Hong Kong, I bought the last copy—better to pay more than miss out altogether. The bottom of the book was printed with lines of text, one of which read: “For everything in life, there is no clear starting point, and there will be no absolute ending.”

Two days later, I was at Devolution Park in Xiamen, an outdoor space built on a residential sixth-floor podium. Inside this vibrant and creative garden, I came across An Ear Bookstore. Hanging there was a zine with “Penang” on the cover—flipping through it, I realized it was a food folklore journal created in collaboration with the founder of Island Bookstore. That unexpected connection bridged the distance between places, as if pulled together by invisible strings.

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I used to compare life to train platforms and tracks, as though everything moved along set paths. Later, I thought of what I did as rolling a snowball, hoping it would one day roll on its own. But it never did. I came to realize it wasn’t a linear process—like pushing a snowball downhill—and gravity wasn’t so easily harnessed.

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About four years ago, just as a train was about to depart, I caught sight of a lake and woods in the distance. Slowly, I shifted from passenger to someone rowing a boat, the carriage floor turning into a gentle stream. Rowing through misty wetlands, I could only see what was nearby, navigating by sound and scent from the forest. Why not sailing? Perhaps sailing calls for a compass, while lakes and rivers have a natural flow—you won’t be lost in boundless emptiness no matter how you row.

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Literal words often fall short of capturing feeling; analogies and sensory language open more room for interpretation. When creating images, I sometimes avoid objective photography because it feels too direct, too exposed. Instead, I treat it as raw material—something to be reworked until it holds meaning beyond a single frame.

When I first displayed my work at book fairs, people often asked about my motivation and whether I did this full-time. Surrounded by prints covering the table, I’d sometimes wonder if these “side projects”—not meant for profit—were really mine. Yet the urge to create and express, driven simply by passion, quieted the doubts. I need an outlet; the routine of daily life and work pushes me to make something. So I observe, record, create, and share. New ideas flow in constantly—like items in a tote bag, you know they’re in there but can’t always pull them out. They accumulate until one day, the bag overflows. You dump everything out, sort through it, and find even unrelated pieces fit like parts of a puzzle. Not because you planned the picture, but because what you have on hand forms a pattern.

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Gathering ideas is like foraging: you find fruits and mushrooms along the way. Following where things grow leads you to more of the same—berries, in this case—until one day you realize you’ve collected enough to make a jar of jam. So you make it.

If algorithmic “filter bubbles” enclose us, then venturing out to discover and engage with the unfamiliar becomes essential to building an open “information bubble”—transparent, expandable, and outward-facing. That openness, that willingness to absorb and connect randomly, frees us from being fixed in place like a tree. Maybe we can be trees with legs.

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I initially wanted to document this year: what I did, where I went, what I felt, what I’m doing and what’s next. But this isn’t an annual report—listing stats and names feels as hollow as those year-end summaries from apps: hours of music listened to, movies watched, gym visits logged, pounds gained. They say everything and nothing. Data stacks up like knots on a string; time flows without clear markers. Many things can’t be finished in a year or two. Reflecting on the past twelve months matters less than noticing where I am now.

Lately, when I share well-wishes, I rarely end with “happiness.” Happiness is fleeting dopamine; freedom is something more sustainable. Wherever you are, may you move toward lightness and ease. Here’s to a freer new year.

*English text translated and adjusted from Chinese via Deepseek