Today, I had another dream, and this one was relatively complete, so I wanted to record it. The moment I woke up from the dream, I was overwhelmed by exhaustion and sorrow, like a surging tide mercilessly engulfing me.

The brother who had borrowed some money from me now urgently came to demand repayment. The amount, which hadn’t seemed much before, now felt like a heavy mountain pressing down on my heart. Two editors who hadn’t received their salaries for a long time looked at me with hopeful eyes, making me too ashamed to meet their gaze. I confidently promised to give each of them 3,000 yuan first, and to do so every month. But where would this money come from? I had no choice but to reluctantly borrow from others.

In the dream, I divided my 24-hour day into three precise blocks. Eight hours were spent working, meticulously planning and editing; eight hours were for rest, connecting with family and friends; and the remaining eight hours were spent running around the streets delivering takeout. Every minute was filled with hardship, and every moment was steeped in painful struggle. After carefully calculating the meager income—5 to 8 yuan per order, working 8 to 10 hours a day—I might earn 300 to 400 yuan. The two of us working together, relying on monthly book sales and this extra income, could cover a significant portion of the deficit.

The setting of the dream wasn’t the bustling skyscrapers of Beijing but a simple sheep pen. It had somehow become our company—absurd and surreal, yet so vividly real. A friend was willing to lend me money but asked to see the company’s financial records. When he saw the pitifully low income from book sales, he eventually agreed, but my heart was already filled with bitterness.

In this illusory dream, I exhausted every ounce of effort to grasp even a sliver of hope for life. Yet, the heavy pressures of reality left me gasping for air, and my dreams felt like distant, unreachable stars. I had given so much, yet I had no idea where the future lay. Tears uncontrollably filled my eyes, and sorrow hung over my heart like a thick haze.

Even so, I still clung to that faint glimmer of hope, because it was the dream that gave me the courage to keep groping forward in the endless darkness. Even if the road ahead was thorny, even if my heart was shattered into countless pieces, I would still search for that tiny bit of sweetness that could bring warmth in this bitter life.

When I woke from the dream, a light rain was falling outside the window, pattering softly. I gazed at the misty rain and thought, life must go on. We must continue to carry our burdens and move forward, no matter the wind or rain. We cannot stop. This, perhaps, is the helplessness of life and the persistence of holding on.

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