What would you change about modern society?

In my company, I wear many hats in IT.

Servers, systems, networks, data centers, user devices—

Websites, mobile apps, production-line software, standalone tools, service integration,

even internal training on quality tools—

I handle it all.

Sometimes I’m an MIS specialist, sometimes a developer, sometimes an internal consultant.

⸻

I’m not an expert, but I got in early.

I was among the first at my company to dive deep into AI tools.

Not just for personal use—I also designed internal courses to teach my colleagues how to boost productivity with ChatGPT and GitHub Copilot.

I took online classes, earned AI certifications, and brought those insights into our daily workflows.

Even in my Flutter training sessions, I included a segment on how AI can speed up development.

To me, it’s not just about the tools—it’s about how they enter organizations, reshape workflows, and influence culture.

⸻

That’s why I can say with confidence:

This isn’t just another version update—it’s a software-level industrial revolution.

People often talk about the “Fourth Industrial Revolution” in abstract terms, but I feel it happening—right here, inside software.

We’re no longer building machines with steel. We’re restructuring processes with language models.

It’s not about freeing physical labor anymore—it’s about freeing mental capacity.

AI can now write code, generate images, draft reports, attend meetings, analyze data, reason…

Tasks that once took a week can now be prototyped in minutes.

⸻

But with that power comes a core problem:

Increased productivity doesn’t mean more work for everyone.

When one person can do the job of three,

when the output speed increases fivefold, but the market only demands one-fifth of that,

replacement is inevitable.

This isn’t the boss’s fault or the tool’s fault.

It’s a structural surplus—our ability to produce has outpaced society’s ability to absorb.

⸻

So it’s time we start asking different questions:

Are we truly creating value with all this hyper-efficiency? Are there more tasks that only humans can do, and are they worth our time? And what will we do with the time AI is saving us?

If our definitions of “creation” and “value” don’t evolve along with technology,

then progress may simply become a path to human irrelevance.

⸻

I’m not just deploying tools—I’m preparing for the future.

I know the workflows and tools I’m fluent in today will soon be outdated.

AI agents, multimodal models, speech–vision–behavior integration—they’re evolving fast.

But I still choose to use, to teach, to observe.

Because I believe this isn’t just about keeping up—it’s about adopting a new mindset about work.

It’s not that everyone needs to become an AI engineer.

But everyone does need to learn how to coexist with tools—and avoid being replaced by them.

⸻

As a full-stack IT generalist, I may not be able to do everything, but I can do something:

When others aren’t ready for AI, I go first and show them how. When workflows haven’t shifted, I try small experiments. As tools grow stronger, I remind myself:  “Tools will change. The definition of value must not stop evolving.”

⸻

The AI revolution isn’t some distant dream.

It’s already here—quiet, thorough, and irreversible.

And it’s happening inside the software we use every day.

⸻

This is what I see.

And this is my small reminder—from someone standing at the intersection of IT and organization:

To connect the dots, and keep asking the right questions.

What do you listen to while you work?

At the office, because of the nature of my work, I can’t really listen to music. There are just too many tasks that require real-time communication and constant attention—I need to keep my ears open, not drift off into my own world.

But at home, when I’m on my computer getting things done, that’s when I get to play music in the background. That’s when I feel a little more like myself, free to set the tone.

Sometimes I go for calming music—piano, ambient sounds, things that help me steady my thoughts. Other times, I get nostalgic and put on Japanese pop songs from 20 or 30 years ago. Certain melodies pull me right back in time, reminding me of old TV shows, cassette tapes, and the smell of rented comic books.

Of course, I know I can’t live in the past forever. Every now and then, I’ll open YouTube and listen to whatever’s trending in Mandarin, English, or Japanese—just to make sure I’m not drifting too far from the current era.

Driving is a different story. On long trips, I usually stick to mainstream pop or soft white noise to keep my mind awake but calm. But every so often—especially on a clear day with little traffic—I’ll sneak in a few high-energy tracks from Initial D. The Eurobeat kicks in, and suddenly every curve feels like a movie scene (though yes, I still use my turn signal like a responsible adult).

I may not remember the title of every song I hear, but these sounds—old and new—create little pockets of space in my life where I can breathe.

What’s your go-to comfort food?

A kid came back from a trip to Japan and brought me a pack of instant coffee.

Nothing fancy—no cute packaging, no famous brand—just a small packet of plain black coffee powder.

I asked him, half joking, “Since when do you know how to pick coffee?”

He smiled and said, “I don’t. I just thought you might like it.”

He was at that age where you’re just starting to drink coffee, but not really used to the taste yet.

Maybe he saw it on a shelf in some convenience store and thought of me.

Maybe it was the first time on a trip that he had the thought, “I want to bring something back for someone.”

That coffee?

It was bitter, a little harsh, and not particularly aromatic.

But I drank it slowly.

Because it wasn’t just coffee.

It was a kid learning to grow up—and learning how to care for someone else.

Just like how my partner often makes me a latte in the morning before work.

Sometimes they brew it by hand.

Sometimes they use a capsule machine.

And sometimes, they just grab one from the convenience store coffee machine.

But honestly, none of that matters.

What matters is—before the sun’s fully up, before anyone’s really awake—someone already thought of you.

Of course, I make coffee for them too.

Sometimes I wake up early just to brew it fresh.

Sometimes I make it the night before and let it cool.

I’ve used ice drip bottles, capsule machines, even just grabbed a cup on the way out.

It goes both ways.

We’re not always the one giving or receiving.

But every time, the message behind that cup is clear:

“I thought of you. Right now, I still do.”

Sometimes, the most comforting taste isn’t on your tongue.

It’s in your heart.

What’s your favorite game (card, board, video, etc.)? Why?

The memories that stayed with me, from childhood to now

When I was a kid, we occasionally played board games at home, but since our family got a computer fairly early on, I ended up playing a lot of computer games too. One of my strongest memories is of the time my dad somehow got his hands on a dismantled arcade machine. It wasn’t the full upright cabinet—just the screen and main components, modified and brought home in pieces. Compared to our old TV, it wasn’t that big, but to my younger self, it felt like the entire arcade had been moved into our living room.

Even cooler, my dad later modified the setup so it could connect to home console game cartridges. It became this Frankenstein super-console, cobbled together but fully functional. I didn’t really understand how it all worked back then, but every time we turned it on felt like starting a little ritual. The screen would light up, and I’d be instantly transported.

As I got older, during my student years, I got hooked on real-time strategy games. Those were the days of LAN parties with classmates—after school in the computer lab, sneaking mice into friends’ houses, or crowding into net cafés. We’d fight for resources, rush units, and pull off last-minute base raids. Win or lose, it didn’t matter. The laughter afterward—about who forgot to build an army, or who got sneak-attacked—was the real fun. Those matches weren’t just games; they were full of energy, teamwork, and the kind of camaraderie you only experience in youth.

Of course, I also had my solo adventures. I was obsessed with RPGs based on Jin Yong’s wuxia novels—those classic martial arts epics. These were personal journeys: starting out as a nameless villager, slowly mastering secret techniques, making allies, uncovering conspiracies, and eventually becoming a legendary hero. The feeling of growth, the loneliness of wandering the jianghu, and those surprisingly emotional endings still linger in my memory. Sometimes I’d sit there long after the game ended, just thinking in silence.

Nowadays, my reason for playing games is simple: to connect with family and friends. Winning doesn’t matter anymore—it’s the shared laughter and conversation that count. Lately, I’ve been playing Rummikub, a light but strategic tile game. It’s perfect for relaxed afternoons with loved ones, chatting and enjoying each other’s company.

A while back, I even played Genshin Impact for a stretch—just to connect with the younger ones in the family. I learned the characters, fumbled through the combat, and got way too excited during gacha pulls. It wasn’t really about the game itself, but about being part of their world.

Games have changed in form, but the feeling of togetherness—whether with others or just within myself—has always remained. For me, games were never just about passing time. They’ve always been vessels of memory, emotion, and connection.

Or maybe—do I just want something to eat?

What foods would you like to make?

When I was a kid, I thought the most impressive dish was anything deep-fried.

Because it required so much oil, my family rarely made it. And even if we did, the oil would be reused to its absolute limit.

Back then, I genuinely believed that tempura shrimp was the epitome of gourmet cuisine—crispy on the outside, tender inside, beautifully plated. Just thinking about it felt fancy.

But looking back now, my taste has definitely changed.

I’m not as into fried food anymore. I’ve reached the age where health starts to matter (you know what I mean 😅).

When it comes to cooking, the questions “What do I want to eat?”, “What do I want to make?”, and “What am I actually capable of making?” are often three completely different things.

For example, my family used to bake brown sugar cookies all the time when I was little.

Crispy, sweet, and fragrant—they’re still one of my strongest food memories.

But would I ever make them again? Hmm… honestly, just thinking about the prep and cleanup makes me hesitate (lol).

That said, there was a time when I really enjoyed baking cakes.

Partly because desserts are just so comforting—and partly because I could never get bread to rise properly.

I tried over and over, eventually accepting that me and yeast don’t get along, and decided to commit to cakes instead. We had a stable relationship for a while.

One of the most memorable attempts was a coffee cake.

I went all in—used nearly an entire box of Starbucks coffee powder. The aroma during baking was amazing, and I had high hopes.

But when it came out of the oven… nothing. The flavor was so faint, it was almost nonexistent.

At that moment, I seriously questioned how store-bought coffee cakes manage to smell so strong.

Do they use artificial flavoring? I’m not saying they do—but I’m definitely not saying they don’t.

In the past few years, I’ve leaned more toward lighter, simpler dishes with layered flavors—like cold salads, steamed eggs, or a hot, comforting soup that isn’t greasy.

That said… lately, the thing I cook most often is a quick, air-fried recipe.

My favorite? Costco’s tail-on shrimp. Just defrost, pat dry, toss in a little olive oil, air-fry for 10 minutes (in two rounds), and sprinkle with salt and pepper.

Super easy, super satisfying.

Wait—am I back to fried food again? 🤣

(Well… at least it’s not that greasy.)

Dogs or cats?

When I was in junior high, around thirteen or fourteen years old, I had a little cat.

A friend’s cat had a litter of kittens, and I chose the quietest one to bring home.

Small and curled up, it would nestle on my belly and sleep.

Every day when I came home, I looked forward to seeing it, feeling like I had my very own little companion.

One afternoon, the kitten slipped outside to play.

I heard it making sounds outside, interacting with the big dog next door.

At first, I thought they were just playing, like animals often chase and tussle with each other.

But they weren’t.

Right before my eyes, the dog suddenly pounced and bit it.

It happened in seconds. The kitten struggled a bit, then went still.

I rushed over to try to take it back, but it was already too late.

In that moment, I was empty.

Not crying loudly, but stunned, trembling, and not knowing what to do.

I held its body and sat there, my mind a mess.

That night, I sat alone on the floor of my room with no lights on,

only remembering how the little body in my hands grew colder and colder.

The dog’s owner came out later to apologize, apparently when I wasn’t home.

He said he had scolded the dog, but I heard him say one thing:

“How could it bully someone’s cat!”

At the time, I couldn’t understand.

That wasn’t “bullying”—that was killing, the end of a life.

For a while, I felt angry and sad because of that sentence.

I thought he was downplaying how serious it was, denying the pain I felt losing it.

But now I understand.

It’s not that he didn’t care about life, it’s just a human instinct when someone close messes up—

to soften the words, to save face and leave room to retreat.

It’s not a clear-cut matter of right or wrong, but human nature.

This world is never perfect, but some feelings can be slowly mended.

It’s not the dog’s fault. It’s the fault of that dog and its owner.

I have never hated dogs because of this.

I still love dogs, and I love cats too.

Just as people come in many forms, so do cats and dogs.

What matters is not sorting them into categories, but how we understand each unique being.

Many years later, I gradually let go.

I began to understand—they are not bad, just unaware of boundaries, unaware of what they took away.

So now when someone asks me, “Are you a dog person or a cat person?”

I always smile and say, “I like both.”

Because it’s no longer about choosing sides,

but whether after being hurt, you can still choose to understand and love.

Which activities make you lose track of time?

don’t always pay much attention to the feeling of time passing,

but I do believe in the power of focus.

Whether it’s actually doing something,

or quietly wishing and hoping in my mind,

focus is a tangible, real force.

Sometimes, I look up and realize it’s already dark outside,

yet I’m still immersed in something that fascinates me—

writing, editing photos, solving a tricky technical problem,

or simply sitting quietly,

my mind turning over a system design I haven’t figured out yet.

No typing, no searching, just a steady heartbeat and a buzzing mind.

It’s not zoning out, and not meditation either—

more like a state of focus suspended somewhere between wakefulness and dreaming.

I once read a line in a book that went something like:

True happiness is that selfless state you enter when you’re fully absorbed in one thing.

The book was Flow.

That word gave me a name for the feeling,

but what I remember is not theory,

it’s the feeling itself.

Closer to my experience is a passage from The Secret of the Golden Flower:

“If the mind and spirit move even slightly, the vital energy scatters.

But if you can remain still at the center, your inner light gathers, and spirit and energy unite.”

It’s not about forcing quietness,

but about seeing the order of inner workings within stillness.

That stillness is not stagnation—it’s gathering.

This kind of focus quietly builds small achievements.

At work, I’ve completed system designs that I’m quietly proud of—

not flashy, but clean and stable, helping those who come after avoid trouble.

In life, I’ve finished writing pieces I never planned to share—

some resonated with friends, others just helped me find clarity amidst chaos.

Not great accomplishments,

but whenever I look back,

I know I was truly present then, and it wasn’t wasted.

The Tao Te Ching says:

“Reach the ultimate emptiness, hold firm the tranquility.

All things arise together, and I watch their return.”

When you stop chasing outward things and turn inward,

you’ll realize focus is actually a kind of return.

And that self who loses track of time—maybe they’re hidden inside.

What bothers you and why?

What Holds Us Back?

I’m still far from financial freedom.

This isn’t a complaint—it’s a reality.

Expenses stretch to the limit every month. Every price hike rewrites the math of living.

I work hard, save, learn new skills, and yes, things are more stable than before. But the line called “freedom” still feels like a mirage—visible, never reachable.

This isn’t just a personal issue. I live in a time of systemic breakdown.

A political system that guards its own power, treating the people’s patience as endless.

Unequal distribution of resources, more slogans than substance, and policies that shift like the wind—

they all make the climb steeper, the ground less solid.

Sometimes, it feels like the structure punishes those who simply want a stable life.

If you don’t want to play games or manipulate others, you have to carry the full weight of uncertainty alone.

The Impact Is Not Just in My Wallet, But in My Heart

The worst part isn’t not having enough money.

It’s knowing something is deeply wrong—and not being able to talk about it.

Even if I speak, the people around me may not hear.

Or worse—they hear, but choose to look away.

My friends and family are good people.

Our emotional bonds are real, our interactions warm.

But when the topic shifts to politics or society,

a quiet distance forms—

as if we’re standing on opposite shores of the same river.

They see the world through the lens of mainstream media, shaped by a single narrative—

coherent, clean, self-reinforcing.

I see another version: messy, gray, not many heroes—just manipulation and the price of silence.

I don’t hate them.

But I’ve learned to go quiet.

Not because I’ve given up, but because I care.

Words don’t always bridge gaps; sometimes, they deepen them.

So I choose not to force it.

It’s not surrender—

It’s respect.

This is contradiction, yes.

But it’s also harmony.

How I Move Forward: Slowly, Steadily, Calmly

I’ve felt anxious, frustrated, even combative.

But eventually I realized:

Instead of desperately trying to escape,

it’s more important to stand firm where I am.

Not resignation—understanding.

Not passivity—but deliberate action.

I began from small things—

building stability not just through more income, but through fewer leaks.

Not only money, but also time and energy.

I made life simpler, but more intentional.

And in that, I found clarity and regained a quiet sense of control.

I stopped trying to overturn the system overnight.

Instead, I focused on becoming someone who could stand through the storm.

“Act without striving. Work without scheming. Taste what is tasteless.”

—Tao Te Ching

I didn’t place all my hopes in society or others.

I chose to be someone who could support myself, in both body and mind.

I stopped fighting everything.

Instead of confronting every contradiction, I chose rhythm and timing.

Slower to speak. Slower to act.

Slower to judge others, and slower to give up on myself.

“Only those who do not compete can never be competed with.”

—Tao Te Ching

This isn’t giving up—it’s the deeper path of resistance.

I no longer need to prove myself with noise.

I move with resolve,

carrying what I can,

for those I love, and for the part of me that still believes.

I’m Still Walking

Over the years, I’ve seen things that disappoint me—

and people worth holding on to.

Reality doesn’t improve because I’m angry.

Nor does it worsen because I’m sad.

I continue not because I’m optimistic,

but because I’m clear-eyed.

In material life, I’m building the foundations for security.

In my spirit, I’m trying to be steadier, more forgiving, rooted but flexible.

Some things I cannot change.

But I can choose not to be changed by them.

Some roads I walk slowly.

But I haven’t stopped.

I’m still walking—

through hardship, and through belief.

Not to prove anything,

but because I trust:

This way, I won’t lose my way.