What's more terrifying than the unknown is the foreseeable; what's more unsettling than change is stagnation. If you could clearly see every day of 20 years, 40 years, or a lifetime, you wouldn't be able to resist the urge to choose, change, or give up something.
— By Lin Tete
A classmate was looking for a job during graduation season.
Several companies were interested, one of which offered the most generous terms: it would provide residency, and the base salary was equivalent to the combined income of other companies. More importantly, it would also provide housing and a car. But all of this came with conditions: the contract stipulated, "You must serve the company for 20 years."
After much consideration, the classmate declined the opportunity. Soon, someone who had been eliminated in the previous round replaced him. Everyone felt sorry for him, but he didn't care. A few days later, the person who replaced him wrote on his blog: "I've been scammed. This company is a fraud. After all these deceptions, I wanted to leave, but I was fined 20 years' worth of breach of contract fees."
Everyone turned back to agree that it was wise to be smart. The classmate looked bewildered. He confessed that he hadn't given up the opportunity because he was able to see through the scam, but because "thinking about 20 years from now, in one place, doing one job, knowing how a quarter of my life will be spent," he was terrified, more afraid of the much lower pay.
A friend shared a similar experience.
She once taught at the best middle school in her hometown. One day, the school held a teaching seminar for a retired but rehired master teacher. The teacher, now white-haired, sat at the front of the class.
The friend, thirsty, went to the water dispenser, poured herself a glass, and took a sip when she suddenly noticed the principal standing beside her. "Little Yang," the principal said, pointing to the master teacher on the stage, encouraging her, "work hard, and 40 years from now, you can be holding a conference like this." The friend spat out her water.
Later, the friend left her hometown and her old job. She explained: she didn't reject being a good teacher, but the principal's words filled her with despair—despair at "seeing 40 years ahead," despair at "how every day of those 40 years will be spent, now vividly clear in her mind." When I met her, she had already changed careers three times and traveled to countless cities, known in her social circle for her pursuit of a novel lifestyle. "I don't think about next year," she often said.
I saw a celebrity on a TV interview talking about why he quit his job to start his own business.
As a college graduate from a remote mountain village, he had a government job in the provincial capital, with a stable and substantial monthly income, which made the young man content. But then a new employee arrived at the office, expressing dissatisfaction with the old desk and chair assigned to her. "It's just a set of desks and chairs, why be so serious?" he advised. "But I might use them for a lifetime, how can I be careless?" the new employee retorted.
"A lifetime?" the celebrity emphasized in the interview, the new employee's words filling him with fear. Yes, an office, a set of desks and chairs, the view from the window, and the job itself—as the new employee said, for a government employee like him, it might remain unchanged for a lifetime.
But how long is a lifetime? Thus, this fear enveloped him, reminding him. Not long after, he left. Much later, he built his empire and became a celebrity. When he spoke of this, people realized, ah, the great change stemmed from a single sentence.
I often think about those people who repeat the same rhythm and content of life day after day. Before you know it, the days have flown by—20 years, 40 years, a lifetime—and you may not have any regrets when
you look back. But what about the reverse? When, due to some opportunity, a single sentence, a time-limited contract, or a reasonable deduction based on reality, you clearly see every day of the next 20, 40 years, or a lifetime, you can't help but be moved, making choices, changes, or giving up some things.
It turns out that what's more terrifying than the unknown is the predictable, and what's more unsettling than change is the unchanging.
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