文 / HuSir

　　亲爱的自己，

　　也写给那些和我一样，从1991年前后大学走出来的同龄人：

　　35年了。

　　我们曾站在那个十字路口。空气里，还残留着八十年代思想启蒙的余温。自行车吱呀作响的年代，我们心里却装着另一种节奏——对公正的渴望，对腐败的隐隐不满，对一个更开放、更能让人自由呼吸的世界的朦胧向往。

　　那时候，校园的角落里，还有人低声谈论“改革”“权利”“普世的价值”。我们未必都走到最前面，但那一阵风，确实吹过我们大多数人的内心。

　　后来，生活像一条仍然宽阔、却逐渐收紧边界的河流。我们被分配，被市场化，被现实一层一层包裹起来。房贷、孩子、工作、稳定的小日子，让人一点点学会衡量、学会取舍。那股曾经明亮的火，并不是一下子熄灭的，而是在反复权衡中慢慢压低了温度。

　　我们学会在表达之前先看一眼无形的边界，学会在公共场合保持沉默，把更多的思考留在私人空间。公共讨论渐渐稀薄，而内心的发问，却在深夜独自回响。

　　这35年，我们亲眼见证了物质世界的巨大变化——从自行车到高铁，从匮乏到丰裕。这是一段几乎无需争论的进步史。但与此同时，内心的某一部分，也被悄然折叠起来。不是消失，而是被收进了更深的地方。

　　我常常会想起那个没有去北京的自己。

　　就连在青岛本地的集体活动都不再参加，父母以他们的健康问题为由连夜把我叫回了家，整整一个星期在家里，哪里也不准去。按照他们的经验和说法，那是对我这样“年轻人”的一种保护，是在挽救我的政治生命。

　　因此，那段历史并没有直接改变我的人生路径。我照常毕业，照常进入了大型国企工作，照常在这个“阴霾国”里寻找更大的信息空间。我的生活看起来是连续的，但内心并不是毫无痕迹。

　　对权力失衡与腐败的反感，并没有因为“没有参与”而消失。它只是随着时间，被磨得不再锋利，被现实压得更深。我们这一代人中的大多数，或许都经历了类似的过程：那份曾经鲜活的热情，并没有被彻底抹去，而是在反复的现实劝导中，逐渐让位于“先把日子过好”“稳定更重要”的判断。

　　我们学会了适应现实，也在这个过程中，悄然放下了一部分曾经的勇气。这不是简单的对错问题，更像是一种代价。

　　这篇文字，更像是一种隐秘的祭奠。不是控诉，也不是辩解。只是承认——我们曾经拥有过某种东西，而它并没有完整地走到今天。它没有葬礼，也没有纪念碑。
　　只有在中年以后，偶尔在夜里浮现的一点酸涩：如果当年多说一点，如果当年没有听父母的劝阻，如果当年慢一点沉默，如果……

　　但历史没有“如果”。我们只是普通人，在一个远大于个人选择的结构之中，做出了当时看来最现实的决定。那里面有无奈，也有真实的代价。

　　有生之年，我们未必能看到那个我们曾经设想的终局。天空依然时常阴霾，边界依然存在，许多表达仍需绕行。但我不愿让这篇文字停留在哀悼本身。

　　我现在能做的，是写作。把看到的记录下来，把感受到的说清楚，把这35年的双重经验留下来——物质的跃升，与内心空间的变化。

　　也写给更年轻的人，让他们知道：在某些年代里，确实有人认真地想过另一种可能。我不夸大，也不粉饰。只是尽量保持真实。如果还有一点点可以延续的东西，那或许不是行动的规模，而是内心的清醒。

　　我希望你——以及那些与我同行过的人——不必惊天动地，也不必成为英雄。

　　只是在可以说话的地方，说一句不完全迎合的话；在可以记录的时候，留下哪怕一小段真实的描述；在独处时，不急着把所有问题都遗忘。也许，这已经是一种保留。

　　进步，从来不只是高铁和GDP。它也包括，我们是否仍然保有继续思考与表达的能力。在阴霾之中，那一点点没有被完全放弃的东西，
　　或许微弱，但也正因为微弱，才更需要被看见。

——一个35年后，仍不愿完全遗忘的普通人
　　2026年4月

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35 Years Later: A Letter to the Courage That Has Passed

By HuSir

Dear myself,
and to those who, like me, graduated from university around 1991:

Thirty-five years have passed.

We once stood at that crossroads. The air still carried the lingering warmth of the intellectual enlightenment of the 1980s. In an era when bicycles creaked along the streets, our hearts beat to a different rhythm — a longing for justice, a quiet dissatisfaction with corruption, and a vague yearning for a more open world where one could breathe freely.

At that time, in the corners of the campus, some people still spoke in low voices about “reform,” “rights,” and “universal values.” Not all of us stepped forward to the front lines, but that breeze did pass through the hearts of most of us.

Later, life became like a river that remained wide yet gradually had its banks tightened. We were assigned jobs, drawn into the market economy, and wrapped layer by layer by reality. Mortgages, children, work, and the pursuit of a stable small life gradually taught us to measure, to weigh, and to make compromises. That once bright flame did not extinguish all at once; instead, it slowly lowered its temperature through repeated calculations and trade-offs.

We learned to glance at the invisible boundaries before speaking, to keep silent in public, and to leave more of our thoughts for private spaces. Public discussion grew thinner, while inner questions echoed alone in the late night.

Over these 35 years, we have witnessed with our own eyes the enormous changes in the material world — from bicycles to high-speed rail, from scarcity to abundance. This is a history of progress that is almost beyond dispute. Yet at the same time, a part of our inner selves has been quietly folded away. It has not disappeared, but has been tucked into a deeper place.

I often think of the self who did not go to Beijing. I did not even participate in the local collective activities in Qingdao. My parents, citing concerns about their health, called me home overnight and forbade me from going anywhere for a whole week. According to their experience and reasoning, this was a way to protect “young people” like me — to save my political future.

Thus, that period of history did not directly alter the path of my life. I graduated as usual, entered a large state-owned enterprise, and continued searching for broader information spaces in this “hazy country.” My life appeared continuous on the surface, but my heart was not left without traces.

The aversion to power imbalance and corruption did not vanish simply because I “did not participate.” It was merely dulled by time and pressed deeper by reality. Most of us in this generation have probably gone through a similar process: that once vivid passion was not completely erased, but gradually gave way to the judgment that “first live a good life” and “stability is more important.”

We learned to adapt to reality, and in the process, quietly set aside a part of our former courage. This is not simply a question of right or wrong, but more like a kind of cost.

This text is more like a quiet mourning. It is neither an accusation nor a defense. It is merely an acknowledgment — that we once possessed something, and it has not fully accompanied us to today. There was no funeral, no monument.

There is only, in middle age, an occasional sourness that surfaces at night: What if I had spoken a little more back then? What if I had not listened to my parents’ advice? What if I had been slower to fall silent? If only…

But history has no “if only.” We were merely ordinary people, making what seemed at the time the most realistic decision within a structure far larger than any individual choice. There was helplessness in it, and there was a real price.

In our lifetime, we may not see the ending we once imagined. The sky remains often hazy, the boundaries still exist, and many expressions still need to take detours. But I do not want this text to stop at mourning itself.

What I can do now is write. To record what I have seen, to articulate what I have felt, and to preserve the dual experience of these 35 years — the leap in material conditions and the changes in inner space.

I also write for the younger generation, so that they may know: in certain eras, there were indeed people who seriously considered another possibility. I do not exaggerate, nor do I whitewash. I simply try to remain truthful. If there is anything that can still be passed on, it may not be the scale of action, but the clarity of mind.

I hope that you — and those who have walked alongside me — do not need to shake heaven and earth, nor become heroes.

Just, in places where you can speak, say a word that does not completely conform; when you can record, leave behind even a small segment of truthful description; in moments of solitude, do not rush to forget all the questions. Perhaps this is already a form of preservation.

Progress has never been only high-speed rail and GDP. It also includes whether we still retain the ability to continue thinking and expressing ourselves. In the midst of the haze, that little bit that has not been completely abandoned —

though faint, precisely because it is faint, needs to be seen all the more.

— An ordinary person who, 35 years later, still refuses to completely forget
April 2026

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