A song from Chengdu revived a closed-down pub.

People noticed that the song is structured in ascending order of age.

Now that he's 23, everyone wants to know if his life will take a turn for the better next time.

Even now, many people naively believe that this song will write a legend, just like a novel.

The initial uneventfulness was merely a prelude to the later explosion.

However, it can only be said that they were too naive.

Next, the song reached the age of twenty-eight.

I've had 28 relationships.

Meeting my older brothers and sisters on the street

So we had a meal.

Her sister asked me if I didn't have a formal job.

Do you want a house? Do you want children?

What should I do?

What should I do if I'm caught off guard and have to leave in a panic?

……

This part is both heartbreaking and realistic.

Twenty-eight years old, an awkward age.

While they may seem young, they've lost the carefree spirit of eighteen.

While he may be considered mature, he is far from possessing the composure of a thirty-eight-year-old.

Life at this moment is like a narrow crevice; ahead lies responsibility, behind lies the irretrievable past of youth.

What I fear most is not working overtime, nor the lack of hope for promotion, but going home for holidays and being bombarded with questions from relatives.

"Do you have a boyfriend/girlfriend?"

When are you getting married?

Have you bought a house yet?

"How much is the salary?"

……

These soul-searching questions measure whether your life has met its standards.

Love, once the purest word, has been suffixed with countless suffixes since then.

Material things and love are never mutually exclusive.

But in this era, material possessions have become the entry barrier for love.

Look at the conditions first, then talk about feelings.

Love without material support is like a pile of loose sand; it doesn't need the wind to blow it away, it will scatter after a few steps.

But does having a material foundation guarantee love?

Many marriages that seem like perfect matches ultimately fail due to indifference and a lack of communication.

Those quantifiable criteria in the marriage market: house, car, education, income...

Can it really bring happiness?

The singing continued.

"I'm 38 and my child is very obedient."

I want to spend more time with her, but I have to work overtime.

What should I do?

Rice, oil, salt, schools, and hospitals

I can't earn more money no matter how much I keep turning around.

What should I do?

"I'm like a machine that can't stop, what should I do?"

……

When these lyrics were sung, the people in the audience, who were in their thirties and early forties, all lowered their heads in unison.

It's not about running away; it's about being hit where it hurts.

It is said that one should be established by the age of thirty, which means establishing a career, a family, and taking on responsibilities.

But when you actually reach this age, you realize that what you've built isn't a house, but a wall that could collapse at any moment.

Children need to attend good schools.

Parents need to see a doctor and take medicine.

There are still 20 years left on the mortgage.

Wages are rising at a snail's pace.

Expenses are skyrocketing.

It spins every day, from the moment it opens its eyes in the morning until it closes its eyes at night, like a machine that never shuts down.

I dare not get sick.

I dare not ask for leave.

I dare not resign.

Even sighs could only be heard when showering, hiding the sobs in the sound of running water.

How long has it been since you had a proper meal with your child?

How long has it been since you took your child to the park to fly a kite?

You promised her that you would take her to the amusement park after she did well on her exams.

She really did well on the exam, but you can't get leave.

Machines don't need to accompany children.

The machine only needs to run, and keep running.

The goal is to earn enough to cover the costs of parts, lubrication, and replacement after the parts are scrapped.

But you are not a machine, you are a human being. You get tired too, and you want to hug and kiss your child, and hold her hand and walk around with her.

But you can't.

Because you have to work overtime.

The reason for working overtime is simple: if you don't work overtime, someone else will.

While others worked overtime and got promoted, you became the one who was laid off.

At thirty-eight, I'm already considered half an old person in the workplace.

Young people are cheaper than you, more willing to work hard, and have no family burdens like you.

You dare not stop, because if you stop, you may never be able to start again.

A picture circulating online shows a middle-aged man squatting under a streetlamp on his way home from get off work late at night, holding an unfinished boxed lunch with a birthday cake next to him.

That day was his daughter's birthday, and he couldn't make it back.

He could only buy the smallest cake after get off work, squat by the roadside, look at his daughter's photo on his phone screen, and say "Happy Birthday."

That picture was shared millions of times.

It's not because it's so exquisite, but because so many people see themselves in it.

They also once fell asleep on the last subway train late at night, missed their stop, and had to take a taxi back.

They also opened the refrigerator and saw the leftovers from last night, which they then heated up for another meal.

They also stood in front of the hospital's payment window, holding the payment slip, staring blankly at the string of numbers on it, and then silently took out their credit cards.

In the adult world, nothing is easy.

The song continues.

I am forty-eight and my children have grown up.

She stays out very late and doesn't come home.

What should I do?

All hope rests on the child.

Our relationship gradually drifted apart.

What should I do?

What should I do if I've lived half my life and still can't find liberation?

……

Forty-eight years old, the mark of half a lifetime.

Looking ahead, there's still half the journey to go.

Looking back, the path I've walked is covered with footprints, some deep, some shallow, all made by my own footsteps.

As your child grows up, you realize that he/she was once your everything.

The day he first called you "Dad," you vowed to give him a good life, the best education, and to ensure he would never suffer the same pain you did.

You're working overtime like crazy.

Make money like crazy.

I desperately enrolled him in tutoring classes.

Buy a house in a good school district.

Saving up money for studying abroad.

You cherish him dearly, and all your hopes are pinned on him.

You hope he gets into a good university, finds a decent job, marries a reliable person, and lives the life you never got to live.

But, I don't know when it started, the distance between you two has grown further and further.

He no longer shares interesting things about school with you.

He stopped bothering you with the question, "Why is the sky blue?"

He no longer lets you check his homework.

He no longer argues with you, nor does he act coquettishly towards you.

He became polite.

Every day when I come home, I say, "I'm home."

Then he went into his room and closed the door.

You knock on his door to bring him fruit, and he says, "Just leave it at the door."

You want to take him out to eat this weekend, but he says, "I've already made plans with my classmates."

When you ask him how his studies are going, he says, "They're alright."

Two words blocked out everything you wanted to say.

You suddenly realize that you don't understand him at all.

You don't know which celebrity he likes.

I don't know what book he's reading.

I don't know who he's close to.

I don't know why he sometimes spaces out.

I wonder what the world looks like through his eyes.

All you know is how much his tutoring fees are each month.

All we know is whether his ranking went up or down.

All I know is how many more points he needs to score to get into a top university.

You've placed all your hopes on your child.

But the children are thinking about how to leave their families of origin.

The relationship between parents and children has become adversarial at some point.

Perhaps, as the song goes, half a lifetime has passed, yet there is still no escape. What should one do?