Time Tells
Ⅰ On Wandering
“Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I will fear no evil, for you are with me.”
—Psalm 23:4
Five years later, I did not become the writer I had hoped to be.
Instead, I remain seated in this room as before, confronting the unexpectedly vivid reality of my twenty-sixth year—the ordinary, the repetitive, the enduring struggle, the quiet sorrow born of countless regrets, and the rare flickers of romance.
I’ve lost a certain idea : that when living elsewhere, I could become anyone.
Walking through the winter streets of Moscow, I feel my past life severed from me by miles. Yet in that moment, though alone, I still remain curious about the world and retain a childlike innocence—curious about what might happen here in the future, yet still caught in an out-of-place idealism about the path beneath my feet.
In *The Unbearable Lightness of Being*, this "lightness" is described. Once I believed : “Life is only once; thus we must live lightly, freely, without restraint.” But it brings another problem : everything begins to seem “not so important.” And precisely this sense of “unimportance” leaves one unmoored—empty, adrift. What can bring lasting, stable happiness?
In a different country, I still wish to witness those universal lights of humanity—the chaos, war, suffering and struggle that transcend borders. As Tolstoy wrote in *Anna Karenina*: “Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.” The seasons turn endlessly; people grow up and age; they face new problems and trials. Some come into life; others leave. It’s like an unstoppable one-way train through time.
Who am I? Where am I going? What does happiness mean to me?
The wanderer once believed he was only fit to be a solitary thinker—incapable of worldly love, unable to bear life’s weight. Yet he never expected love’s arrival or his own fall. He carries thoughts about the world while maintaining distance from it. At the same time, he bears fantasies of intimacy and desire for closeness; longing for dependence on another; idealizing marriage. Once he thought love was salvation—a personal epic of heroism—but real love forces him to confront undeniable gaps between them : their differing understandings and definitions of life; their divergent judgments on direction and choices; their shared inability to bear life’s unknowns; their struggle to trust tomorrow or plan for it. These awaken within him a sense of weight—and meaning—in life.
The story told in *War and Peace* seems always to echo this truth : “Do not rush to build a life with others before you’ve learned how to stand alone.” Love, marriage, family are not salvation tools—they are two people who have already learned how to carry their own lives choosing to walk together.
Now I find myself more drawn than ever to Levin from *Anna Karenina*, because he brings truth into his life. Levin suffers too—he doubts himself; he questions marriage, meaning, faith—but he allows himself to live confusedly; embraces “continuing despite uncertainty.” More importantly : even though he doesn’t know all answers—he chooses responsibility. He accepts he is not at the center of the universe; that his feelings do not equal to truth; that he must live for others too.
I keep walking forward—but now it feels as if I’ve reached a turning point. Here I must lay down my past attachments—my grudges and illusions—my outdated innocence and romantic idealism. I acknowledge my limits and smallness. Though walking through dark valleys—I fear no evil—for God walks with me.
At this moment I know :
Every choice in life must be borne alone.
And yet—I choose to give weight—to my present life—to myself.
