伯努利原理是什么意思？
我坐在高铁上，恍惚间的震动让我回神，我在想，为什么两列高速运动的高铁列车在面对面运行，擦肩而过的瞬间，车身会产生瞬间的偏移？
因为伯努利原理：在一个稳定的流场中，流速越快的地方，压强越小；流速越慢的地方，压强越大。
丹尼尔·伯努利在1738年的《水动力学》中提出这个原理：在一个封闭系统内，能量不会凭空消失，它只会在“静压能”和“动量”之间转换。
今天一直在下雨，乌云笼罩的这片天，雨覆盖了无数人，如果把这条原理映射到无数人组成的社会学和心理学中，也会出现一个类似的现象：当一个组织、一个社会或一个人的发展速度（V）运行到极致时，内部用来维持稳定的静压力（P，内在的稳定性、思考的深度、灵魂的闲暇）会由于能量守恒大幅下降。
比如现代社会正在PUA我们每一个人成为一股高速流动的空气。我们追求效率，追求更快的反馈，但根据这个原理，当一个人的人生流速过快时，内部的压强会降到冰点，从而产生生存真空。这种真空会产生巨大的吸力，让人不由自主地被吸向强大意志、大众审美、消费主义洪流，因为内部已经没有足够的“压强”来支撑自我。
中国社会的高速发展，经济发展极快，但人们的内心的静压力极低，比如追求快速多巴胺的释放、无法集中注意力、或者无法进行深度思考思辨就不假思索地反驳、抑郁者增加、甚至无法深度无聊，自我在这种压强里已经消解。
这里的压强指的是向下深度探索的能力。
社会学语境下，V（流速）代表信息更替的速度、财富积累的速度、社会阶层变动的效率；P（压强）指的是一个人的存在密度，也就是深度的自主意识、专注力、情感厚度、抗御外界干扰的内在定力。
整个社会都在为了极致的效率而加速时，我们内部用来锚定自我的“静压力”并不会那么乐观。观察人们对短视频和即使社交反馈的依赖程度就可以说明，无时无刻的手机，吃饭即使面对面也要玩的手机……
这确实会带来快速多巴胺，高流速下的代偿。因为没有时间去进行深度的、长期的、成就感构建，反而容易产生抑郁与无聊，因为人的存在密度被稀释了。人们像是一股被管道强行加速的空气，跑得快，但不再拥有原本属于自己的体积和重量。
如果对标到个人，如果一个个人的学习速度很快，保持速度的前提下，还可能拥有压强吗？因为对于我个人而言，我觉得我每天都在学习很多，也很快，但是我的内心非常平静。我产生了一点疑惑……
既然有了疑惑，我对自我认知的这种“平静”和“快速”突然产生了怀疑，我有很多问题。
如果这种“快”，也是一种被我内化的要求呢？
如果有一天，我不再追求学习很多、学习很快，而只是要求自己在一条没有任何产出的、极其平庸的慢轨道上停留下来，那种平静依然会存在吗？
我觉得，我的平静大概率基于我正高速前进的动态平衡上，如果没有这个速度，我还是会自洽一段时间，因为我觉得人应该有保持深度无聊的能力，即完全静止，身体与思想都完全静止。但是一段时间后，我可能就会开始焦虑，我可以身体不做任何事，但是我的大脑里开始需要高速运转点什么。
既然如此，我意识到，这样的平静其实可能是建立在“我正在高速进步”这种优越感之上的变相动态平衡，像某种借代品。
在物理学中，有一种结构叫耗散结构，就是要不断从外界交换能量、物质或信息，才能维持内部的有序，如果停止交换，就会陷入崩塌。
我有时候感觉自己就像一个高速旋转的陀螺，陀螺在高速旋转时，看起来是静止的，这种状态被物理学称为“定”，但这是一种表象。身体静止，思想深邃，自洽且平静。但实际上大脑还在后台疯狂认知对冲，目的就是抵御虚无感，所以我必须不断给大脑投喂新的逻辑、知识、问题之类。
那么，如果一个人的平静建立在“我还在获取新知”或者“我还在思考”的前提下，这真的叫自洽吗？还是也不过是一种认知成瘾？
因为我的自我意识其实没办法和纯粹的虚无共存，就需要不断产生一些有意义的噪音。
韩炳哲在书里提到过深度无聊是精神的宁静，是创造力的孵化器。但在我这里，这种无聊似乎变成了一场生存测试？
因为思考是一个减熵过程，目的是建立秩序，当我强制大脑停下时，内心的熵值，就是那些混乱、虚无、无意义感会瞬间爆发，本质上是某种自我防卫，也就是结构化焦虑，因为我的身份感是建立在“我是个深刻的学习者，或者思考者”这一支柱上的。一旦停止思考，这个身份支柱就会消失，就产生一种“我不存在了”的错觉。
这对于一个存在主义来说，像在掘坟……
所以我要尝试的，是将“存在感”与“思考产出”分离。
如果一个人被放逐到了一个“信息绝对真空”的地方，那里没有新知识可以学习，没有逻辑可以推演，甚至没有过去的回忆可以咀嚼，只剩下一颗能够感知当下这一秒的大脑，如果那一秒还被无限拉长，会剩下一个什么样的我呢？那个剩下的、不再有用、不再聪明、不再博学的自己，我依然爱那个自己吗？
这种对大脑高速运转的渴求，其实是对自己“平庸化、空白化”的一种深层恐惧。那“空洞”到底长什么样？
我也一直在学习平静面对平庸的能力。即不再命令自己做什么，我允许自己是个烂人或者禽兽，偶尔会这么骂一下自己，最开始觉得挺尴尬，后来很平和，会觉得对，我就是，那又怎样？ 以前我无法接受自己深度无聊和平庸，现在我还是不能接受自己长时间的平庸，但是短期内我允许自己摆烂，也觉得我就是一事无成，那怎么了？
至于深度无聊，我很享受这种感觉，比如在地铁上，或者其他时候，不会玩手机，而是听身边的声音，地铁运行的时候的噪音是小三度，还有滑音。不思考也不会马上焦虑。
我现在的情况接近于一天时间里，一段时间深度思考，一段时间彻底放空。但不会刷短视频看朋友圈刷社交平台什么的，最多看看风景，看自然构造，听声音，建立一个场域，看这个场域的人和自然都在干什么，什么气味、颜色、音调。
列车路过了山洞，从窗户里看不见风景了，只能看见我自己。
看到车窗倒映的自己，突然又想到一个更本质的问题：
当我用这种状态的“彻底放空”去观察场域中的气味、颜色和音调时，是不是依然带着一种“高级感”在俯瞰众生？这种不刷朋友圈、能欣赏地铁噪音的行为，好像也不经意间成了我对抗“平庸”的新武器，如果我其实和身边那个刷短视频的人在本质上一样，都只是在消耗时间，那种“平和”还会存在吗？
或者说，我是否可以接受一种终极的平庸？即我不仅是一个“烂人”或“一事无成的人”，甚至连“独特且深刻的观察者”这个身份也可以丢弃？
在那段“彻底放空”的时间里，当一个人感觉到自己不再是一个“主体”，而仅仅是场域的一部分时，是否能感受到一种超越“自我实现”的自由？那种自由里，还有“我”的存在吗？
我对“不在场”的渴望，是一种主体性消融。想成为环境的一部分，像空气中的尘埃或地铁里的震动一样，不再作为一个观察者去审视他人，而是作为一个“存在者”与万物共振。
到这里所谓的“俯瞰”，其实也是防御“平庸”的一道护城河，不是吗？
当我观察地铁里的噪音和小三度时，我在想地铁VVVF逆变器的合唱，电机交流电的震动频率时，虽然我自己说自己是环境的一部分，但大脑依然在进行高强度的编码，因为通过这种审美的特殊性，我可以将自己与那个“刷短视频的平庸大众”隔离开来。
“我比他们更懂这一秒的音调”，这本身就是一种傲慢。
因为这一刻我不听滑音，不去深思，也并不比任何人更卑微，也不比任何人更崇高。
物品都在倾斜。
列车在拐弯，窗外的高楼大厦全部都在倾斜，好像地平线也产生了扭曲。
外轨超高。我观察到了这种离心力。我的身体也随着列车一起倾斜了，但大脑好像依然在尝试寻找绝对的垂直参考点。
既然“车厢是正的”，那么“不正的”就只能是窗外的世界了。
想到生活，如果想要在高速状态下平稳转弯，生活就要打破原有的水平状态。如果要求人生永远保持绝对水平，那么当一个人遇到生活的高速转弯时，产生的巨大离心力会直接把人甩出轨道。
列车很少很少会离开轨道，它甚至比我们更会做“人”。它会优雅的侧身，为了抵消外界的冲击，主动的“倾斜”也是一种智慧。
这种“允许自己做烂人、做禽兽、允许摆烂”，好像也是我给人生铺设的一段“外轨超高”。用这种姿态上的倾斜，来对冲内心对平庸的恐惧，也就是离心力。
因为如果不给自己留出这种“摆烂”的余地，我想要时刻保持高速运转、追求极境的大脑，可能某个拐弯的地方就出去了。
但我奇怪的是，如果我已经意识到了“所有人本质都一样”，为什么我依然需要通过“听出滑音”这种特殊的审美行为，来给自己的倾斜寻找一个高级的理由？如果在没有任何审美补偿的情况下倾斜？比如，仅仅是因为累了而发呆，而不是为了“建立场域”而观察？
量子力学里存在“观察者效应”，在亚原子尺度下，人无法在不改变量子状态下观察它。同样，在社会场域里，当一个人开始“观察这个场域的人和自然在干嘛”时，其实已经把自己从场域中拎出来了。但我觉得，我想要的“不在场”，是连“我在观察”这个念头都没有。
所以我感受到的，现在的这些思考、放空，其实依然是二元对立的。还在工作和休息之间切换。
但思维是非二元的，我追求的到底是“自由本身”，还是“只有聪明人才能拥有的自由”？
我的大脑出现了一个声音：我想尝试那种普通且平庸的自由。
但很快，我又察觉到，“尝试平庸”本身就是一个悖论：当我尝试平庸时，我觉得就像是在执行一个“变得平庸”的精英任务，大脑依然在后台运行一套严密的 KPI，评估自己平庸得够不够专业、放空得是否足够彻底等等。
这就像在量子力学中，人试图观察一个不被观察的粒子，只要观察者意识还在，平庸就成了一场行为艺术。我的内心住了一只麦克斯韦妖。
破除对“深刻”的依赖，像一场艰难的告别。
我能接受自己是个“烂人”，但我要的那种“深刻的烂人”依然是一种精英叙事。
很多人喜欢把自己描绘成“清醒地堕落”，因为“清醒”这两个字保住了最后的优越感。
如果我不仅烂，而且还很肤浅呢？
在那段空白的时间里，我并没有产生任何哲思，只是单纯地感受到了空洞和乏味，那种毫无美感的、甚至有点尴尬的空洞，还能心安理得地坐在那里多久呢？
我想象尝试丢掉书，关掉耳机，去一个最市井、最没有美感的地方，比如一个嘈杂的农贸市场或一个装修简陋的小吃店，看到一张张写满风霜的脸，或者一声粗俗又刺耳的叫卖，命令大脑停止任何社会学或心理学的分析，不想什么底层逻辑，也不想什么异化；当那种“我正在浪费生命”的恐慌感袭来时，不用“我在进行平庸实验”来安慰自己，就让恐慌感淹没我。
我以前想通过变强来获得掌控感，现在我想尝试通过变弱来获得自由。
“平庸”不是一个可以抵达的目标。宇宙中大部分的物质都是无机、无序、不思考的原子，95%以上是暗物质和暗能量，剩下的5%才是我们能看见的普通物质，绝大部分还是恒星和星际气体。人类、蚂蚁、喜马拉雅山，加在一起不过是宇宙账单上的一个四舍五入都能被抹掉的零头，而人类的思想只是那一点微不足道的、偶然闪烁了一下、产生了“我思故我在”这种错觉的火花。
想到这句话的时候，我产生了一种深深的轻松感，这种关于平庸的自我解构，让我获得的巨大的自由感，消解了关于“我”的意义，我只是存在，和蚂蚁，和动物并没有区别，只是在宇宙里存在，只是存在，因为我深知无法确定我是否活着。
这一刻，我不想再试图成为宇宙的中心，不再试图给每一个碳原子的排列组合赋予高尚的意义，从那种永无止境的意义劳役中释放。
刚刚我提到自己和蚂蚁没有区别，我觉得这句话还是有点隐秘的优越感。
蚂蚁没有“我正在虚度光阴”的烦恼，因为它没有自我意识，它是不知道自己存在的存在。而当我感叹“我只是和蚂蚁一样存在”时，还是站在高维里，带着悲悯俯瞰着那只叫“自己”的蚂蚁。
这种我能“意识到的平庸”，依然是精英主义。
蚂蚁才不会感到轻松，只有被“意义”压迫了太久的人类，在扔掉包袱的那一刻，才会产生这种多巴胺式的释放。
既然人类的思想只是宇宙中一次偶然的火花，那如果这种自由感也消失了呢？如果生活不仅没有意义，连这种“消解意义后的快感”都没有呢？当这种“深深的轻松感”褪去，剩下的只有漫长的生理性存活时，还能平稳地存在下去么？因为现实随时会把人拉回来啊。
我深知自己是尘埃，是偶然，是宇宙的排泄物或意外。如果不再需要用“深刻”或“自由”来装饰自己，我现在的感觉就是，继续看我想看的书，去想去的地方玩，认真好奇我好奇的事，刚刚我想的那些东西，我只是知道了。
想起禅宗里那个三重境界：
见山是山，见水是水；
见山不是山，见水不是水；
见山又是山，见水又是水。
警惕虚无主义。
萨特认为存在先于本质。但当我选择“看我想看的书”时，我依然在进行选择吧。
如果有一天，命运甚至剥夺了“看书、游玩、好奇”的权利，那种“只是知道了”的自由，还在吗？换句话说，自由是建立在“我拥有做我想做的事的自由”之上，还是建立在“无论我处在什么境地，我都接纳这种存在”之上？
还有，这种允许践踏我的社会学身份，而不动摇我的核心本体的自信，不是一种隐秘的自负吗？
懒得想了，去玩吧。
尼采在《查拉图斯特拉如是说》中提到精神的三种境界：骆驼、狮子和孩子。
骆驼负重前行，承载着“你应当”的沉重枷锁；
狮子愤怒咆哮，夺取“我要”的自由，击碎所有的神像；
最后是孩子。没有辩论，没有解构，只有对生命这场游戏最纯粹的参与。
题外话：下了列车后，刚好看到对面的动车组开过，是两列列车组合在一起的16节车厢，突然想想这两辆动车拼在一起，是怎么运行的？各自有动力吗？
查了一下：在铁路术语中，这种操作叫做“重联（Multi-unit operation）”，它们的前端的东西叫做夏芬伯格车钩，当两车轻轻相撞，钩舌会瞬间相互咬合，完成锁死，在锁死的瞬间，两辆车的电气回路和空气管路也瞬间打通。
普速列车是一个车头拉着一串没动力的车厢。这叫动力集中；动车组之所以叫“组”，是因为动力是分布在不同车厢下的。即便两辆车拼在一起，后车也在运行，每一列动车组内部都有自己的电机。重联时，总功率是两车之和。比如两列 8 编组的动车重联，就变成了 16 编组，马力翻倍，但两辆车通过电气连接，共享了同一套控制信号。驾驶室里只有前车的司机在操作，但他的每一个指令都会通过电缆，以接近光速的速度传递给后车的每一台电机。
我想到了一些社会学模型。老式的火车像一个强者拖着一堆弱者，强者精疲力竭，弱者毫无作为，一旦断开，弱者原地去世。
但动车协作更像两个独立的、完整的、自带动力系统的个体，因为同一个目标，在这一刻选择了锁死。
动车的每一列车都是完整的。分开时，依然能跑出350km/h的速度，在一起时，我愿意把我的“神经”交给你，让你来指挥我的肌肉。到了转运站，解编只需一秒钟。我们各自收回神经，又是两个自由的、完整的灵魂。
人和人之间可以并行一段路，我可以用我的力量助你前行，但我并不是你的附属品，我也没有丧失我的动力系统。
我说这些成立吗？不知道，可能连“成立不成立”，都不需要成立。
思考到这里，忽然明白为什么那些哲人最终只是保持对天道的敬畏，因为思考到极致，最终只是俄罗斯套娃式的拆解，逻辑拆解不到最底层，只有不断地建立防御，拆解防御，再建立一种新的防御，反复循环。智者用最复杂的逻辑，推导出了最终逻辑是无用的；用最深刻的思考，证明了最终思考是自傲的，因为人类思维本身已经锚定了这种“傲慢”，到最后，只剩抛弃逻辑的、本能的敬畏。
这些都不是起点，也不会是终点。
总之，出站了，轨道已经在身后。
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What does Bernoulli’s principle mean? Sitting on the high-speed rail, a momentary jolt snaps me out of my trance. I wonder, why is it that when two high-speed trains race towards each other and cross paths, their bodies experience a momentary deflection at the exact instant they pass? It is because of Bernoulli’s principle: in a steady fluid flow, the higher the velocity, the lower the pressure; conversely, the lower the velocity, the higher the pressure. Daniel Bernoulli proposed this principle in his 1738 work Hydrodynamica: within a closed system, energy does not vanish out of thin air; it merely converts between “static pressure energy” and “kinetic energy” (momentum).
It has been raining all day. Under this sky shrouded in dark clouds, the rain covers countless people. If we map this principle onto the sociology and psychology of the masses, a similar phenomenon emerges: when the developmental speed (V) of an organization, a society, or an individual reaches its absolute limit, the internal static pressure (P)—used to maintain equilibrium, representing internal stability, depth of thought, and the leisure of the soul—will plummet drastically due to the conservation of energy.
For instance, modern society is psychologically gaslighting every one of us into becoming a current of high-speed air. We pursue efficiency and faster feedback. However, according to this principle, when the velocity of a person’s life becomes excessively fast, their internal pressure drops to the freezing point, thereby creating an existential vacuum. This vacuum generates a massive suction force, drawing people involuntarily into the torrents of powerful wills, mass aesthetics, and consumerism, simply because there is no longer enough internal “pressure” to prop up the self.
The rapid development of Chinese society has brought immense economic growth, yet people’s internal static pressure is incredibly low. This manifests as the pursuit of quick dopamine releases, the inability to focus, or the tendency to reflexively argue without the capacity for deep critical thinking; it shows in the rise of depression, and even the inability to tolerate profound boredom. The ego has already dissolved within this dropping pressure. The pressure here refers to the capacity for deep, downward exploration.
In a sociological context, V (velocity) represents the speed of information turnover, wealth accumulation, and social mobility; P (pressure) refers to a person’s density of existence—that is, profound autonomous consciousness, focus, emotional depth, and the inner anchor to resist external interference.
When the entire society is accelerating for the sake of ultimate efficiency, the “static pressure” we use internally to anchor ourselves is far from optimistic. Observing people’s reliance on short videos and instant social feedback illustrates this—phones in hand at all times, even while eating face-to-face… This indeed provides rapid dopamine, a physiological compensation under high-velocity flow. Because there is no time to build deep, long-term, structural senses of achievement, people are more prone to depression and boredom, as the density of human existence has been diluted. People are like air forced to accelerate through a pipe: they run fast, but they no longer possess the volume and weight that originally belonged to them.
Applying this to the individual: if a person’s learning speed is highly accelerated, can they still maintain their internal pressure while sustaining that speed? Because speaking for myself, I feel I am learning a lot every day, and learning fast, yet my inner state remains remarkably calm. This sparked a bit of doubt in me…
Having harbored this doubt, I suddenly became suspicious of my self-perceived “calmness” and “speed,” and a multitude of questions arose.
What if this “fastness” is also a demand I have internalized?
If one day, I no longer pursue learning a lot and learning fast, but instead demand of myself to stay on an utterly unproductive, exceptionally mediocre, slow track—would that calmness still exist?
I think my calmness is highly likely predicated on the dynamic equilibrium of my high-speed progression. Without this velocity, I might remain self-consistent for a while, because I believe humans should possess the capacity for profound boredom—complete stasis, where both body and mind are entirely at rest. But after a period of time, I would probably start getting anxious. My body might not be doing anything, but my brain would begin craving some high-speed operation.
That being the case, I realize that such calmness might actually be a disguised dynamic equilibrium built on the superiority complex of “I am making rapid progress”—acting as some sort of surrogate.
In physics, there is a concept called a dissipative structure: a system must constantly exchange energy, matter, or information with the outside world to maintain internal order. If the exchange stops, it plunges into collapse.
I sometimes feel like a rapidly spinning top. When a top spins at high speed, it appears completely stationary. This state is termed “stasis” in physics, but it is merely an illusion. The body is still, the thoughts are deep, self-consistent, and calm. But in reality, the brain is frantically hedging cognitive concepts in the background, purely to fend off a sense of nihilism. Thus, I must constantly feed the brain new logic, knowledge, and questions.
So, if a person’s calmness is premised on “I am still acquiring new knowledge” or “I am still thinking,” can this truly be called self-consistency? Or is it nothing more than cognitive addiction? Because my self-consciousness actually cannot coexist with pure nothingness; it constantly needs to generate some meaningful noise.
Byung-Chul Han mentions in his book that profound boredom is spiritual tranquility, the incubator of creativity. But for me, this boredom seems to turn into a survival test?
Because thinking is an entropy-reducing process aimed at establishing order. When I force my brain to halt, internal entropy—the chaos, the nihilism, the sense of meaninglessness—erupts instantly. This is essentially a form of self-defense, a structural anxiety, because my sense of identity is anchored on the pillar of “I am a profound learner, or thinker.” Once the thinking stops, this pillar vanishes, producing the illusion that “I no longer exist.” For an existentialist, this feels like digging one’s own grave…
Therefore, what I need to attempt is detaching my “sense of existence” from my “cognitive output.”
If a person were exiled to an “absolute information vacuum”—a place with no new knowledge to learn, no logic to deduce, not even past memories to ruminate on—leaving only a brain capable of perceiving the present second, and if that second were stretched infinitely… what kind of “me” would be left? That remaining self, no longer useful, no longer smart, no longer erudite—would I still love that version of myself?
This thirst for high-speed neural operation is actually a deep-seated fear of my own “mediocritization and blankness.” What exactly does that “void” look like?
I have also been learning the ability to face mediocrity calmly. That is, no longer commanding myself to do anything. I allow myself to be a piece of trash or a scumbag. I occasionally curse myself like this; at first, it felt quite awkward, but later, it became peaceful. I’d think, “Right, I am. So what?” Previously, I couldn’t accept my own profound boredom and mediocrity. Now, I still can’t accept prolonged mediocrity, but in the short term, I allow myself to let it rot, and I feel that if I accomplish absolutely nothing, so what?
As for profound boredom, I do enjoy the feeling. For instance, on the subway or at other times, instead of playing on my phone, I listen to the sounds around me. The running noise of the subway forms a minor third, accompanied by glissandos. I don’t get immediately anxious if I’m not thinking.
My current situation is roughly like this: within a given day, a period of deep thought, and a period of total mental emptying. But I won’t scroll through short videos, social feeds, or platforms. At most, I look at the scenery, observe natural structures, listen to sounds, and establish a field—watching what the people and nature in this field are doing, their smells, colors, and pitches.
The train passed through a tunnel. The scenery vanished from the window, leaving only my own reflection.
Seeing myself reflected in the glass, a more fundamental question suddenly struck me:
When I use this state of “total emptiness” to observe the smells, colors, and pitches of the field, am I still looking down on the masses with a sense of “superiority”? This act of not scrolling through social media and appreciating subway noises seems to have inadvertently become my new weapon against “mediocrity.” If I am fundamentally no different from the person next to me scrolling through short videos—if both of us are merely killing time—would that “peace” still exist?
Or rather, can I accept an ultimate mediocrity? Meaning, not only am I a “piece of trash” or an “underachiever,” but I can even discard the identity of a “unique and profound observer”?
During that period of “total emptiness,” when a person feels they are no longer a “subject” but merely a part of the field, can they experience a freedom that transcends “self-actualization”? In that freedom, does “I” still exist?
My longing for “absence” is a dissolution of subjectivity. I want to become part of the environment, like dust in the air or the vibration in the subway carriage—no longer scrutinizing others as an observer, but resonating with all things as an “existent.”
So up to this point, the so-called “looking down” is actually just another moat to defend against “mediocrity,” isn’t it?
When I observe the subway noises and the minor third, when I think of the chorus of the subway’s VVVF inverters and the vibration frequency of the AC motors, even though I tell myself I am part of the environment, my brain is still engaging in high-intensity encoding. Because through the exclusivity of this aesthetic, I can isolate myself from the “mediocre masses scrolling through short videos.”
“I understand the pitch of this second better than they do”—this in itself is a kind of arrogance.
Because at this moment, if I don’t listen to the glissandos, if I don’t think deeply, I am no more lowly than anyone else, nor am I any nobler.
Objects are tilting. The train is taking a curve, and the skyscrapers outside the window are all leaning, as if the horizon itself has warped. Outer rail superelevation (cant). I observe this centrifugal force. My body tilts along with the train, but my brain still seems to be actively trying to find an absolute vertical reference point.
Since “the carriage is upright,” then the “not upright” must be the world outside the window.
Thinking of life: if you want to make a smooth turn at high speeds, life has to break its original horizontal state. If we demand that life remains absolutely horizontal forever, then when a person encounters a high-speed curve in life, the immense centrifugal force generated will throw them straight off the tracks.
Trains very, very rarely leave their tracks; they are perhaps better at “being human” than we are. They lean gracefully. To offset external impact, proactive “tilting” is also a form of wisdom.
This “allowing myself to be trash, to be a scumbag, allowing the rot” seems to be a stretch of “outer rail superelevation” I’ve laid down for my life. I use this postural tilt to hedge against the inner fear of mediocrity, which is the centrifugal force. Because if I don’t leave myself this room to “let it rot,” my brain—which constantly wants to operate at high speed and pursue extremes—might just derail at some curve.
But what puzzles me is: if I’ve already realized that “everyone is fundamentally the same,” why do I still need to find a high-level justification for my tilt through special aesthetic behaviors like “hearing the glissando”? What if I tilt without any aesthetic compensation? For example, spacing out purely because I’m exhausted, rather than observing to “establish a field”?
In quantum mechanics, there is the “observer effect.” At the subatomic scale, one cannot observe a quantum state without altering it. Similarly, in a social field, when a person starts “observing what the people and nature in this field are doing,” they have already plucked themselves out of that field. But I feel that the “absence” I desire is one where even the thought of “I am observing” ceases to exist.
Therefore, what I perceive—these current thoughts, this emptying of the mind—is still actually dualistic. I am still toggling between work and rest. But thinking is non-dualistic. Am I pursuing “freedom itself,” or “the freedom only smart people can possess”?
A voice appears in my brain: I want to attempt that ordinary and mediocre freedom.
But quickly, I realize that “attempting mediocrity” is itself a paradox: when I attempt mediocrity, it feels as though I am executing an elite mission to “become mediocre.” My brain is still running a rigorous set of KPIs in the background, evaluating whether my mediocrity is professional enough, whether my mental emptying is thorough enough, and so on. It’s like in quantum mechanics, a person trying to observe an unobserved particle. As long as the observer’s consciousness remains, mediocrity becomes performance art. A Maxwell’s demon lives in my heart.
Breaking the addiction to “profundity” is like a difficult farewell. I can accept that I am a “piece of trash,” but the “profound piece of trash” I wish to be is still an elitist narrative.
Many people like to depict themselves as “soberly degenerating,” because the word “sober” preserves their final shred of superiority.
What if I am not only trash, but also incredibly shallow?
During that blank period, I didn’t generate any philosophical thoughts; I merely felt an emptiness and tedium. A thoroughly unaesthetic, even slightly awkward emptiness. How long could I sit there with peace of mind?
I imagine trying to throw away my books, turn off my earphones, and go to the most mundane, unaesthetic place—like a noisy farmers’ market or a shabbily decorated snack bar. Looking at faces etched with hardship, or hearing a vulgar and grating sales pitch, I would command my brain to cease all sociological or psychological analysis. No thinking about underlying logic, no thinking about alienation; when that panic of “I am wasting my life” strikes, I wouldn’t comfort myself with “I am conducting an experiment on mediocrity.” I’d just let the panic drown me.
I used to want to gain a sense of control by becoming stronger; now I want to attempt gaining freedom by becoming weaker.
“Mediocrity” is not a destination one can arrive at. The vast majority of matter in the universe consists of inorganic, disordered, unthinking atoms; over 95% is dark matter and dark energy, and the remaining 5% is the ordinary matter we can see, the vast bulk of which is stars and interstellar gas. Humans, ants, the Himalayas—added together, they are nothing but a rounding error on the universe’s ledger, easily erased. And human thought is nothing but that insignificant, accidental spark that produced the illusion of “I think, therefore I am.”
Thinking of this sentence, I felt a profound sense of relief. This self-deconstruction of mediocrity granted me an immense sense of freedom, dissolving the significance of “I”. I merely exist, no different from ants or animals. Just existing in the universe, merely existing, because I know deep down that I cannot even be certain if I am alive.
At this moment, I no longer want to try to be the center of the universe, no longer want to assign a noble meaning to every permutation of carbon atoms, released from that endless servitude of meaning.
I just mentioned that I am no different from an ant, but I feel there’s still a hidden superiority in that statement.
An ant doesn’t have the worry of “I am wasting my time,” because it lacks self-awareness; it is an existence unaware of its own existence. And when I sigh, “I merely exist like an ant,” I am still standing in a higher dimension, looking down with pity on the ant called “myself.”
This “mediocrity I can be aware of” remains an elitism.
Ants don’t feel relieved. Only humans, oppressed by “meaning” for far too long, experience this dopamine-like release the moment they drop the baggage.
Since human thought is just an accidental spark in the universe, what if this sense of freedom also disappears? What if life not only has no meaning, but also lacks this “pleasure of deconstructed meaning”? When this “profound sense of relief” fades, leaving only prolonged physiological survival, can one still exist steadily? Because reality will drag you back at any moment.
I am deeply aware that I am dust, an accident, the universe’s excrement or anomaly. If I no longer need to decorate myself with “profundity” or “freedom,” my current feeling is just this: to continue reading the books I want to read, going to the places I want to visit, taking a genuine interest in the things I am curious about. As for the things I was just thinking about—I simply know them now.
It reminds me of the three realms in Zen Buddhism: Seeing mountains as mountains, seeing water as water; Seeing mountains as not mountains, seeing water as not water; Seeing mountains again as mountains, seeing water again as water.
Beware of nihilism. Sartre believed that existence precedes essence. But when I choose to “read the books I want to read,” I am still making a choice, aren’t I?
If one day, fate strips away even the right to “read, travel, and be curious,” would that freedom of “just knowing” still remain? In other words, is freedom built upon “the freedom to do what I want to do,” or is it built upon “accepting this existence regardless of the circumstances I am in”?
Furthermore, isn’t this confidence—allowing my sociological identity to be trampled upon without shaking my core ontology—a form of covert conceit?
Too lazy to think about it anymore. Time to go play.
Nietzsche mentioned the three metamorphoses of the spirit in Thus Spoke Zarathustra: the camel, the lion, and the child. The camel bears the heavy burden, carrying the heavy shackles of “thou shalt”; The lion roars in fury, seizing the freedom of “I will” and shattering all idols; Finally, the child. No debates, no deconstruction, only the purest participation in the game of life.
On a side note: after getting off the train, I happened to see an EMU (Electric Multiple Unit) passing by on the opposite track. It was a 16-car train made of two coupled trainsets. Suddenly, I wondered: how do these two coupled EMUs operate? Do they each have their own power?
Looked it up: in railway terminology, this operation is called “multi-unit operation” (heavy-haul coupling). The apparatus at their front is called a Scharfenberg coupler. When the two trains gently collide, the coupler knuckles instantly interlock and lock in place. At the exact moment of locking, the electrical circuits and pneumatic lines of the two trains are instantly connected. Conventional trains involve a locomotive pulling a string of unpowered carriages. This is called concentrated power. An EMU is called a “unit” because the power is distributed across different carriages. Even when two trains are coupled together, the rear train is still powering itself; every EMU has its own motors. When coupled, the total power is the sum of both trains. For example, two 8-car EMUs coupled become a 16-car train with doubled horsepower, but through the electrical connection, the two trains share the same control signal. Only the driver in the front cabin is operating, but every single one of his commands is transmitted via cables at near the speed of light to every motor in the rear train.
I thought of some sociological models. Old-fashioned trains are like a strong person dragging a bunch of weak people. The strong one is exhausted, the weak do nothing, and the moment they disconnect, the weak perish on the spot. But the collaboration of EMUs is more like two independent, complete individuals with their own propulsion systems, choosing to lock together for this moment because of a shared goal.
Each EMU train is complete. When separated, it can still run at 350 km/h. When together, I am willing to hand my “nerves” over to you, letting you command my muscles. Upon reaching the transit station, uncoupling takes but a second. We each take back our nerves, once again becoming two free, complete souls.
Between people, we can travel parallel for a distance. I can use my strength to help you move forward, but I am not your accessory, nor have I lost my own propulsion system.
Does any of what I’m saying hold up? I don’t know. Perhaps even the concept of “holding up or not” doesn’t need to hold up.
Reaching this point in my thoughts, I suddenly understand why those philosophers ultimately just maintained a reverence for the cosmic order. Because when thinking is pushed to its absolute limit, it ultimately becomes a Matryoshka-doll-like dismantling. Logic cannot be dismantled to the absolute bottom; there is only the endless cycle of building defenses, dismantling defenses, and building a new kind of defense. The wise used the most complex logic to deduce that logic is ultimately useless; they used the most profound thinking to prove that thinking is ultimately arrogant, because human thought itself has already anchored this “arrogance.” In the end, what remains is only an instinctual reverence that discards logic.
None of these are the starting point, nor will they be the endpoint.
Anyway, I’m out of the station. The tracks are already behind me.