Weightlessness

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.

My name is Li Ming, an ordinary office worker, shuttling daily through the city's cold concrete jungle. The cubicle is my fortress, and the food delivery app is my armory. I used to think that this was the progress of the times, where with a tap of a finger, delicious food would arrive. That was until a news report hit the surface of my calm life like a pebble shattering a tranquil lake – "Undercover reporter at Huang Men Chicken warns not to order takeout before 11 am."

11 am, is that the darkness before dawn, or the last line of defense for a merchant's conscience? I do not know. I only know that from that day on, my life began to lose its gravity.

Before, what I enjoyed most was frantically typing on the keyboard before a deadline and then, when my stomach was rumbling, ordering a steaming hot Huang Men Chicken with rice using my phone. The rich sauce enveloping the tender chicken, paired with a bowl of crystal-clear rice, was the best comfort after a tiring day at work.

But now, every time I see those familiar Huang Men Chicken shops on the food delivery platform, my stomach churns. I start to imagine the scenes captured by those "undercover reporters": dimly lit kitchens, greasy stoves, unprocessed ingredients... Those pictures that once made my mouth water have now become the sword of Damocles hanging over my head.

I started trying to cook for myself.

Awkwardly washing and cutting vegetables, frantically stir-frying. The cooking fumes made my eyes water, and the dishes either turned out too salty or too bland. I stood in the kitchen, looking at those failed dishes, and suddenly felt a deep sense of helplessness.

I miss those days of takeout, I miss that illusion of "everything is under control." I know it's a false sense of security, but at least it allowed me to temporarily forget the stress and anxiety of life.

I started to suffer from insomnia.

Lying in bed, my mind repeatedly played news reports about food safety: gutter oil, zombie meat, expired ingredients... I feel like a screw trapped in a huge machine, constantly spinning with the roar of the machine, but not knowing where I will be taken.

I started to doubt everything.

I doubt whether the vegetables in the supermarket are really fresh, I doubt whether the meat in the restaurant is really safe, I doubt whether the world is really as good as it seems.

I started to get anxious.

I'm afraid of getting sick, afraid of eating unclean food, afraid of the world suddenly collapsing.

My friends all say that I have changed, that I have become neurotic, and that I am no longer as optimistic and cheerful as before. They advise me not to think too much, saying that this is just an isolated case, and that we should trust society.

Do I believe it?

I do not know.

I only know that my life has lost its balance.

I am like an acrobat walking on a tightrope, carefully maintaining a fragile balance, fearing that if I am not careful, I will fall into the abyss.

I remember Dickens' words: "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times."

We enjoy unprecedented convenience, but we also pay an invisible price for it. We live in an era of information explosion, but we are also more confused and anxious than ever before.

What should we do?

I do not know.

I only know that I need to find a new balance, a balance that will allow me to regain my footing in this weightless world.

Perhaps, it is a re-examination of life, a re-understanding of myself, a re-planning of the future.

Perhaps, it is just a simple lifestyle, a healthy eating habit, and a positive attitude towards life.

Perhaps, it is a trust in society, a care for others, and a hope for the future.

Perhaps it doesn't exist at all. It is simply Kafka's castle, desirable but unattainable.

But I am still willing to search for it, because I know that only by finding it can I regain my center of gravity in this weightless world.

I took a deep breath, closed the food delivery app, and opened the refrigerator.

Tonight, I'm going to cook for myself.