As I grow old

 　　Once, I was a little kid, barefoot, my back tanned and smooth from the sun. I had endless whispers and countless questions. Back then, time seemed to move so slowly; I was always cheering and running, chasing after my childhood filled with paper airplanes.

　　Once, I was an energetic and spirited young man, my veins burning with passion, my heart brimming with lofty ideals, my very being brimming with vitality. I loved chasing colorful dreams, enjoyed the hustle and bustle of city life, loved the carefree spirit of youth, loved unbridled madness, and loved true friends.

　　Half a lifetime of toil and struggle, and now, looking at myself in the mirror, I suddenly realize that my once black hair has been streaked with gray, and my once smooth face is now etched with wrinkles. Looking back, my body is like an old machine tool that's been used for decades; every part has loosened, and my steps are no longer as agile as before. My biological clock isn't as precise as it used to be; the pace has slowed considerably, and my posture is more restrained. I feel like the sun at five or six in the afternoon—still warm, but lacking energy.

　　Those classmates and friends who came and went have drifted apart, quietly becoming passersby in my life. Those relatives I thought would be by my side forever suddenly disappeared one day.

　　When I invite friends or classmates for tea and a chat, it's usually just one or two people, slowly whiling away the time. Three or five people, with their constant chatter, just feel overwhelming.

　　In many situations, it's like Scrooge counting the coins in his box and the words on his lips; people gossip, I just smile and listen, no longer offering my opinion. There are fewer heartfelt messages on WeChat Moments; most of the time I just lurk, occasionally glancing, not saying a word, even liking feels superfluous.

　　I still care about other people's opinions, but I've learned to let go more. I don't take things too seriously anymore; I'm tolerant when I can. Arguments and anger never last long; I always apologize first, and laugh it off. At home, I'm obedient to my family; outside, I'm compliant with society.

　　I've gradually become accustomed to things I used to find unacceptable, and I'm less cynical. When faced with injustice, I tell myself that's just how society is, as if I've seen through the illusions of the world. I still feel compassion for the weak and will help them instead of complaining about social injustice.

　　I prefer quiet to crowds and have become more nostalgic; some people call me "Grandpa" now.

　　I seem to take everything lightly, yet I also see everything clearly. Even if I'm slandered or ridiculed behind my back, I won't resort to violence to confront them; even if I suffer a loss, I'm too lazy to fight back.

　　When troubled, I no longer complain; I quietly observe, listen, and reflect. No matter how much grievance I have, I won't readily confide in them; no matter how deep my wounds, I won't easily reveal them; even when life is tiring and bitter, even when I'm physically and mentally exhausted, I still wear a smile.

　　When I meet a woman I admire, I no longer fawn over her like a bee, chattering away to please her. At most, I simply walk past her, like a gentle breeze, occasionally nodding and smiling, omitting any pleasantries.

　　Class reunions of all kinds and sizes are still in full swing, and traces of youth can still be found when we gather together. However, even those "goddesses" who try to hold onto their youth with money have to admit that they are nothing more than "seasoned beauties."

　　Once willing to sacrifice their bodies for wealth, power, and status, now they are willing to abandon everything for life. They spend every day researching health and wellness, with weight loss being a constant topic and activity.

　　Some elderly behaviors appear uninvited. Things remembered clearly yesterday are forgotten today; things clearly put away are gone when I turn around; sitting on the sofa watching TV, I fall asleep; looking back three times before leaving the house: picking up the keys and checking my pockets, going into the kitchen and checking the gas, leaving the house and looking back again…

　　Is this the rhythm of aging? I don't want to think about it, nor do I want to inquire, but I have to face it.

　　Sigh! People get tired of hoping, they become listless from striving, and they grow old from swaying along...

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