CIGARETTE

Remnants of my mom's hometown, Zhanjiang, photographed on my father's film camera he used 30 years ago in the same city. As I spend time with local teenagers and observe the pensive demeanor of adult figures, I wonder who I will grow up to be.

During my trip to my mom's hometown, Zhanjiang, a heavy blanket of nostalgia covered everything I saw and experienced. A distinctive aura of nihilism, teenage contempt, and hope defined everyone around me, a certain energy you could only feel in adolescents. Surrounded by motorcycles, skateboards, and the warm, muggy scent of the ocean after dark, the abundance of people was comforting. At this age, you can be alone and lost, yet still preserve a spirit of intense, boundless hope.

As I observed adult figures in my life, I noticed that their dreams, once held aloft with unwavering certainty, begin to bear the weight of experience. As I journey through teenhood, I grow increasingly anxious about this idea — this possibility of an "average life." In summers full of restless nights, all I could do was roam the streets, photograph what I saw, and wait for time to pass through me to give me an answer.

As my cigarette diminishes, the ember at the end pulsating with each inhalation, I can't help but fear the impending idea of adulthood, when the only remnants of my cigarette will be a fragile, swift, fleeting light. As this light retires and the ashes become fragile, I will bid farewell to my teenage years. Will my dreams still burn bright?