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.

List 10 things you know to be absolutely certain.

We live in a world growing more complex by the day—a tangle of logic, emotion, and systems.

Everyone is searching for direction: some outward, some inward.

Looking back on the road I’ve walked, I don’t claim to know much.

But what I do know, I know with clarity.

1. Systems speak of law, but people speak from emotion.

Society relies on structure, so the order of things is “law, reason, then emotion.”

But for individuals, the sequence is often reversed:

Emotions come first, reason follows, and legality is the last to be considered.

Governance is grounded in law, but human connection begins with heart.

The wise know the order; the common follow instinct.

2. It’s not that people don’t know—it’s that they don’t want to know.

The most stubborn part of human nature isn’t ignorance, but denial.

Eyes can be open, yet the heart tightly shut.

Sometimes, facing the truth hurts more than believing a lie.

So people choose not to see.

3. Holding tighter doesn’t always make things more secure.

Love, dreams, freedom—they all need room to breathe.

The more you try to control them, the more you risk losing them.

What truly stays is what chooses to stay, even after you’ve let go.

4. You can’t control the world—you can only move with it.

Man follows the Earth.

Earth follows the heavens.

The heavens follow the Tao.

The Tao follows what is natural.

It doesn’t mean doing nothing, but rather learning to find rhythm in chaos.

To make peace with the world, not fight it.

5. Skills grow by accumulation. But peace of mind grows by subtraction.

“Learning increases daily. Following the Tao decreases daily.”

We grow stronger by learning, yes.

But inner stillness comes from letting go—

of desire, comparison, and the need to prove anything at all.

6. The stronger a person is, the gentler they tend to be.

“The greatest straightness appears bent. The greatest skill appears clumsy.”

True strength is rarely loud.

True resilience doesn’t need to boast.

The ones who can bear the most don’t often speak the most.

7. Only those who know contentment can hold on to happiness.

“To know contentment is to avoid disgrace; to know when to stop is to avoid danger.”

Desire has no finish line.

Peace belongs to those who can say, “This is enough.”

8. Not fighting back is a form of power.

“The highest good is like water. It benefits all things without contending.”

You can be firm without being forceful.

You can have principles without being aggressive.

Those with real influence don’t need to shout.

9. The more chaotic the world gets, the calmer your heart must be.

“Heaviness is the root of lightness. Stillness is the master of restlessness.”

Stability is not something the world grants you—

it’s something you choose for yourself.

Only those who quiet their minds can find their direction.

10. The deepest form of goodness is silent.

“True good leaves no trace. True words leave no flaw.”

You don’t need to prove how good you are.

It’s enough to know you haven’t become what you once feared.

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These ten things may not guarantee success,

but they have granted me peace.

Together, they form the single path I trust:

Flow with the world, without contention.

Hide your edge, but never weaken.

Know what is enough, and be content.

Follow the Tao, by doing without striving.

Are you seeking security or adventure?

People often ask: Do you want security, or do you want adventure?

When I was younger, I thought I could have both — never letting go of anything.

I said it with confidence: Only kids make choices. I want both.

But as I walked further down the road, I realized—not every path can be walked twice.

As we grow older, the number of paths we can take begins to narrow.

Time becomes shorter, responsibilities heavier, and the cost of failure higher.

Some choices, once missed, never come back.

But it is precisely because of this that I’ve come to understand:

Security and adventure are not opposing options. They are two states we must learn to balance.

The Tao Te Ching 道德經 says:

“Know the masculine, but keep to the feminine. Be the valley of the world.“

Understand strength, but be willing to hold space for softness and retreat. It’s not about fearing risk, but about knowing what’s truly worth protecting.

When I have loved ones by my side, I find more courage—

but I also become more unwilling to lose.

Through love, I’ve learned to take risks.

Through love, I’ve also learned to protect.

Alone, I might have rushed ahead with no hesitation.

But now, I choose to live with stability—for the ones I hold dear.

As Tao Te Ching 道德經 also says:

“The highest good is like water. Water benefits all things and does not compete.”

Security is the depth of water; adventure is its flow. We move through life like a river—not rushing blindly, nor staying still—but adjusting to the moment, choosing balance at every turn.

Security and adventure are not a choice. They are a path of balance.

Not a compromise, but a form of maturity.

Not hesitation, but calm resolve.

Not giving up on dreams, but knowing when to be still, and when to move.

Love gives me the courage to risk, and the reason to stay safe.

If you could host a dinner and anyone you invite was sure to come, who would you invite?

If I could invite anyone to dinner and be certain they’d come, I think I’d invite Ko Wen-je.

It’s not because I particularly support his political views, nor because he’s free of controversy today. In fact, quite the opposite—he’s currently under investigation and surrounded by public scrutiny. The image of him as a clean and rational public figure has become increasingly blurred. And yet, precisely because of that, I find myself wanting to sit down and have a proper meal with him.

A Dinner on TV

My first encounter with Ko Wen-je came through a Taiwanese TV show called Who’s Coming to Dinner? In one memorable episode, a medical student about to graduate confessed he had no plans to take the physician licensing exam. Instead, he hoped to become a full-time volunteer—a decision that left his family worried and confused.

The show invited Ko Wen-je—then still a physician at National Taiwan University Hospital—to join the family for dinner and help talk through the issue.

Rather than lecturing or scolding, Ko spoke with calm logic, clear thinking, and a surprisingly gentle tone. He didn’t push the student back onto the so-called “mainstream path,” but instead used reason and empathy to gently peel back the layers of confusion, both in the student and his family.

I remember he said something that left a deep impression on me. The gist was:

“Right now, your road is wide. If you don’t take the licensing exam, you’re narrowing it too soon. Keep your options open. Don’t close the door before you even know where it leads.”

He’s Not Just Himself—He’s Our Projection

Years later, Ko Wen-je is no longer just a doctor. He’s a former mayor of Taipei, founder of a political party, and even a former presidential candidate. These days, he’s caught in a whirlwind of accusations, court cases, and public debate.

This only makes me more curious: Does he still believe in what he used to say so clearly? Do those values still hold for him? Or have they been reshaped—worn down—by politics and power?

Perhaps the real reason I want to invite him to dinner isn’t merely to talk with him, but to confront the version of myself who once resonated so deeply with what he stood for.

Every Society Has Its Heroes

Every country, every society, has its version of the “righteous figure.”

In Japan, people tend to revere quiet, diligent craftspeople. In the U.S., the public loves heroic individuals with grand visions who defy the odds. In Taiwan, for a while, we seemed enamored with a different type—rational, pragmatic, no-nonsense professionals who spoke plainly and acted efficiently. Ko Wen-je was, for a time, a near-perfect reflection of that ideal.

But our heroes often fall. Or at the very least, they change. And when they do, it often says as much about us as it does about them.

What do you think gets better with age?

First, let’s talk about what gets worse.

Physical strength definitely fades away little by little. I used to be able to stay up late and still push through, but now if I stay up late even once, my whole day feels like my brain is stuffed with cotton.

My reactions have slowed down too. When someone finishes speaking, I need a couple more seconds to catch up; before, it felt like I was jumping, now it’s more like walking.

Sometimes, even my thinking feels like broken gears — my brain wants to turn, but just can’t.

Not to mention the unavoidable fact: as we get older, we get a little closer to the finish line.

But I read a book called Thinking, Fast and Slow.

Psychologist Daniel Kahneman says the brain operates in two ways: one is fast, intuitive “fast thinking,” and the other is cautious, effortful “slow thinking.”

When I was young, I almost always lived by “fast thinking.” I would just act first and think later, reacting on intuition and making quick decisions.

Sometimes it was efficient, sometimes I fell hard — though I rarely admitted it. Back then, I thought fast was good and slow was useless.

But in recent years, as my physical strength waned and my mind dulled, I’ve had to slow down.

Not because I became smarter, but because I can no longer go fast. At first, I was a bit reluctant, but gradually I realized: some things really require slowing down to see clearly.

For example, the unspoken meanings in conversations;

for example, what a decision truly means to me;

for example, some patterns I kept repeating in the past were just things I hadn’t noticed.

These things weren’t impossible to understand when I was young — I just didn’t have the energy or time to face them. Now, it’s mostly not that I’m wiser, but that I have no choice but to face them honestly.

To be honest, slowing down isn’t necessarily a good thing. It’s not romantic or free — it makes me start calculating how much time I have left, paying attention to small health issues, and thinking about which relationships are worth the effort.

But because I slow down, I can endure anger better, am less easily fooled by appearances, and am more willing to admit “I’m actually not sure.”

Maybe that’s enough.

I won’t say this is some beautiful personal growth, but amid all the decline, finding a few things that get better is a kind of arrival.

Some things get worse with age — that’s undeniable.

But some things can only be gained through time. Not stronger, but more honest, more effortless, more truly myself.

If this counts as getting better, then I’m willing to accept this way of aging.

Getting old is not evolution — it’s slowly letting go of things that have been held on too long.

What time do you go to bed and wake up currently?

I usually go to bed around 10:30 and wake up at 7:00.

It’s a fairly regular routine.

But honestly, it’s just an outline—life doesn’t always follow the schedule.

Sometimes work keeps my mind spinning late into the night.

Sometimes it’s a tough conversation with a parent that lingers in my head.

Sometimes it’s just one sentence from my partner that I can’t stop thinking about.

But there are sweet reasons too.

Staying up late planning for a trip.

Spending a few more minutes exchanging sweet words.

Getting up earlier to prepare breakfast for someone I love.

Or simply riding the wave of inspiration and coding late into the night.

Sometimes I just sleep in for no reason. And that’s okay.

I like routine—it keeps me from falling apart.

But I’ve also learned to embrace the little disruptions.

Because life isn’t a checklist.

It’s something with warmth, and heartbeat, and meaning.