The Prophet‘s Spring Festival Gala
Zhang Wei, an inconspicuous programmer in a cubicle, has recently found himself a "celebrity." To be precise, a "net god." It all started with a post he made on an anonymous forum ten years ago. Several hundred words, it accurately predicted every program of this year's Spring Festival Gala, from the opening dance to the midnight chimes, even including a celebrity's lip-syncing being exposed by the audience.
The news spread like a virus across the internet, and his ID "priest" became a god-like figure. People in the company looked at him differently, from ignoring him before to respecting him now. The boss even called him to the office, smiling amiably, asking if he was interested in setting up a "prophecy business department" and saying he would give him a team.
Zhang Wei found all of this utterly absurd. He had forgotten what he had written in the post ten years ago, only remembering that he was young and rebellious, and complaining about the Spring Festival Gala. He wanted to explain that he was just talking randomly, purely a coincidence. But who would believe it now? People would rather believe he was "chosen by heaven," a "prophet" who could foresee the future.
As a result, Zhang Wei's life completely changed. Every day, reporters were blocking his front door, asking him for the next "prophecy." His Weibo private messages exploded, and various fortune-telling companies and investment institutions were throwing him olive branches. Everywhere he went, people pointed and whispered. The former nobody had jumped to the forefront of public attention.
He began to try to adapt to this new life. The boss gave him the best office, a beautiful assistant, and he had various meetings to attend and interviews to handle every day. But he knew very well that he was not a "prophet," he was just a "lucky guy" or a "poor devil" chosen by the times.
Once, at a high-profile dinner party, a slicked-back hair bigwig walked up to Zhang Wei with a glass of wine and asked with a squint: "Mr. priest, could you predict our company's stock trend for the next quarter?"
Zhang Wei looked at him, smiled and said, "I can only predict what you will eat for breakfast tomorrow morning."
The bigwig was taken aback for a moment, then laughed heartily: "Mr. priest, you're so humorous!"
That night, Zhang Wei had insomnia. He lay in bed, looking at the ceiling, feeling like a puppet being manipulated, being pushed forward by an invisible force. He wanted to go back to the past, back to his inconspicuous self, but he knew that everything was gone.
The Spring Festival arrived, and the whole country celebrated. Zhang Wei was invited to a grand New Year's Eve gala. He sat in the guest seat, watching the glamorous performances on stage, feeling a mix of emotions. At this moment, the host walked up to him, smiling and asked, "Mr. priest, what do you think of this year's Spring Festival Gala?"
Zhang Wei picked up the microphone, looked at the audience below the stage, took a deep breath, and said, "I think this gala is almost exactly the same as that post I made ten years ago."
The whole place was silent. Then, applause thundered.
In the midst of the clamor, Zhang Wei saw a familiar figure in the corner, the administrator of the forum ten years ago, the one who deleted his initial complaint post. He smiled at Zhang Wei, and then disappeared into the crowd.
Zhang Wei understood that this was not a coincidence, but a carefully arranged absurd drama. He was just a marionette in this drama, a "god" that was manufactured. He looked down at his hands and suddenly felt very pathetic.
He knew that he could never escape the fate of prophecy because, in the huge machine of society, everyone could be the next "prophet." And the truth is often drowned out in blind revelry.