A year.

A year has passed since I started earning my own living.
Recently, memory of the days I spent over the former two jobs occurred to me quite a lot.
I started my first day in X Journal in November last year. As we were working on a new website and the boss was aggressive(or stupid) enough to think that it should compete Bloomberg, I showed up at 6am everyday by getting up at 5. After several hours’ machine-alike translating, the boss would shout over MSN to announce our freedom of a short breakfast break. Then I would flee to get a smoke in the stairway in that industrial building, antiquated as it would collapse at any time. A winterly beam of sunshine would cast in from the high window in the stairway, watching the smog burning out of my cigarette dispersed, and finally disappeared in it. Then I get back to the office for breakfast. My local colleague grumbled on the same thing over and over everyday, thanks to which I grew a filter system in my ears for the discharge of excessive bullshits. All I had in mind was one thing. I wondered how many of days like that still waited ahead.

Before long, I was back to S Paper and was a reporter again. To be fair, I didn’t enjoy so much being a reporter, neither did I possess the quality to make a good one. Except that a slight sense of satisfaction was indeed felt seeing my name inked in as a byline. I never raised questions on a press conference, for I never really had a question or necessary curiosity. I hardly exchange thoughts with my peers, not that I never tried, simply couldn’t fit in. Meanwhile, though, I rarely had problems getting the job done. If I got luck, I even got compliments for writing a good story sometimes, which felt so distant now. But nothing could alter the fact that life as a reporter is in its nature hectically disordered: I never cared to have a serious meal, while refreshments at conferences could just make a day. I was at my lightest. The job was in general acceptable in a friendly weather, but when the sky lost its temper, I lost my patience of faking everything was okay.
Oddly, when I think of those days, while all the details are still vividly clear, the time itself feels outrageously remote. So remote that I’m not even convinced it was me who went through it, or, I just stole someone else’s life and lived that for a while.
That’s how I come to realize one thing: in the future, I will feel the same way about the present being. The current days is doomed as a future memory with the same kind of irrelevancy. One never lives one’s true life if one doesn’t mean it.
It’s been a year since I started earning my own living. If there was anything that varied, it’s that things have been invariable with me. I still cannot spend less carefully, nor am I able to behave a bit more sophisticatedly. But I feel blessed, for beneath everything, I still sense it, the primary suffering bundled with life itself, and the one and only truth that no one can do nothing about.
There are people lost their sentiments for good.


最近常常想起做前两份工作的日子。11月开始在X报上班,那时在做的网站还在筹备阶段,为了增加竞争性,上班时间不段被提前,每天5点起床,6点到公司,进入机器人状态猛翻译几个小时,直到老板在msn群聊框里大吼一声:we’re done guys! time for breakfast. 然后我会跑去那栋旧得感觉随时会塌掉的工业大厦的楼道里抽一根烟,冬天的阳光从楼梯间高高的窗户里照进来一束,烟的影子在那光中慢慢散开。然后回到办公室 call早餐吃,用左耳听local同事就一模一样的事情每天重复抱怨,再从右耳一字不落地过滤掉。那时候满脑子想的就是,这样的日子还要过多久。
没过多久,毫不费力地回到S报,回到了做记者的轨道中。对于做记者,谈不上喜爱,也深知自己不适合,仅仅是看到自己的名字变成印在油墨纸上的byline时 获得一些微小的满足感。在外面跑新闻的时候,我从不会举手提问,一是没有那么多问题,二是提不起足够的兴趣。也不大跟同行交流,不是没有努力过,只是总插不上话,有点格格不入的样子。不过写稿子交差倒是从来不成问题,不时听到编辑顺口表扬一句还能乐个半天,现在想起来却都已经恍如隔世。生活毫无规律可言, 甚至吃不上一顿完整像样的正餐,好在靠着各种招待会的refreshment也基本可以果腹。天气好还算过得去,要是不巧赶上降温、刮台风、下大暴雨的日子,就苦逼得不免自怜,感到自己像个烈士。


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