Rebirth of Chinese Entertainment, the Diary of a 95 Flower

First, Zhou Ye went to the third phase of the Beiping International Trade Center. He sat in the Yunku Bar, where the average cost per person was over three thousand yuan, and looked down at the streets outside where the traffic flowed like golden lines.

The rich kid at the next table was having fun spraying his Patek Philippe watch with champagne with the Ace of Spades, and the waiter didn't seem to find it strange.

I walked around in a daze for five minutes after going downstairs, and under the bridge, I saw a homeless man stuffing empty bottles of the same brand of liquor with cigarette butts and using them as pillows.

Then I went to the public toilet on the east side of the Sihui Long-Distance Bus Station on Jianguo Road.

It was the largest passenger station in eastern Beiping.

A sign at the toilet payment counter warns that damaged items will be compensated at cost.

Observe the users of the toilet that costs one yuan.

I saw migrant workers preferring to keep their money to themselves rather than spend it.

I overheard the cleaner muttering, "These people aren't reluctant to go in; they're just afraid of getting dirty and having to pay for it."

Zhou Ye looked at the migrant worker's flushed face and pinched her wrist hard.

I don't know why, but my heart is aching.

Some people don't even have the freedom to go to the toilet.

The fruit plate that the rich kid casually threw away is enough for an old man under the bridge to pay a month's rent.

Then I went to the Fifth District garbage sorting station on Jinsong South Road.

The old community was built in the 1970s, and next to it is a new residential building with a price of over 100,000 yuan per square meter.

Observe the work of garbage sorting supervisors.

I saw an elderly scavenger carefully wrapping a half-eaten cake that someone had thrown away into a clean handkerchief, and I heard a cleaning lady say to a resident who complained about the smell, "I don't mind the smell, this is my child's tuition fee."

She stared at the handkerchief the old woman used to wrap the cake, and suddenly remembered the half-eaten tiramisu she had carelessly thrown away on her way home from her Beijing Film Academy entrance exam.

What you waste is the sweetness that others are reluctant to touch.

Finally, we arrived at the Bianlifeng 24-hour convenience store in the back alley of the SKP shopping mall on Dawang Road.

They stayed from 2 a.m. to 4 a.m.

I saw a drunk office worker crying while cooking instant noodles.

I also saw a delivery guy smiling as he ate a cold steamed bun.

I overheard the migrant worker saying on the phone in her local dialect, "Mom, I sit in the office with the air conditioning on every day, I'm so happy!"

In this world, some people even package their complaints as happiness.

He realized that the young woman working in front of him was none other than Yang Chaoyue.

I sat in this Bianlifeng 24-hour convenience store until dawn.

I scanned an OFO shared bike that became popular last year and rode it towards the East Hotel.

While waiting at a traffic light, she took out her phone, opened Jiang Yang's chat window, and typed a message: ["Jiang Yang, I think I understand what you mean. You're right, I really don't deserve to be an actor."]
I wanted to be an actor not because I had any stories I absolutely had to tell, but more because I felt it was glamorous to stand in front of the camera.

It's like someone who's never been in a relationship trying to write love songs.

Looking up at the flashing numbers on the traffic light, Zhou Ye's face grew paler inch by inch.

I also understand why Chaoyue never needs to use eye drops when acting in crying scenes.

Because the tears of a transcendent being seep from the very marrow of one's bones.

That kind of pain cannot be acted out through imagination.

I can work hard to memorize all the performance theories, practice the most standard smile curve, and perhaps even be able to precisely control the timing of each tear in the future.

But he couldn't portray the look in the eyes of someone who had been hungry when they saw bread.

He couldn't portray the instinctive trembling of muscles when someone is stabbed in the back by a loved one.

Those who have never experienced true despair do not even have the right to pretend to be in pain.

I thought the hardships of being an actor meant filming in short skirts in winter and being covered in bruises from being suspended by wires.

But the real hardship came when Chaoyue was sixteen and working as a waiter at a barbecue restaurant, where he had to smile and say thank you when a customer touched his thigh.

It was at the Zejiang Jiaxing Zipper Factory that I got my finger pierced by an injection molding machine. The wound scabbed over and then cracked open again, but I couldn't even afford to buy iodine.

The text I typed in the chat box was not sent to Jiang Yang.

Back to the hotel.

I saw that Yang Chaoyue posted a message on his WeChat Moments.

The accompanying photo was taken in the courtyard of my hometown in Yancheng.

There were shelled and dried broad beans on the cement ground, and several bundles of firewood were piled in the corner.

Yang Chaoyue squatted by the well washing clothes, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Her father sat on a small wooden stool mending fishing nets, with porridge steaming on the earthen stove behind him.

The caption is:
I've been home for about ten days, and my dad says that these hands of mine are meant for playing the piano, and that using them for farm work is a waste.

But I think that with these hands, I can play the piano, shred corn, shell broad beans, wash clothes, and even give my dad a back massage.

It's all about manual skills anyway, so I'm not picky.

Today during singing practice, my big yellow dog seemed to be annoyed that I was singing off-key. Every time I sang, it barked and growled at me. It was so contrary to nature.
Jiang Yang commented below: [The character "刚" is misspelled.]
Yang Chaoyue replied to Jiang Yang: [If you hadn't said anything, no one would have noticed.]
Following this was Gulnazar's comment: [The character "刚" in "超跃" was indeed misspelled.]
Yang Chaoyue replied to Gu Linazha: [Is it obvious?]
Gulnazar replied to Yang Chaoyue: [I don't know, I copied Jiang Yang's comment, I haven't read what you wrote yet.]
Zhou Ye lay in bed, privately texting Yang Chaoyue: ["Chaoyue, if I ever have the chance to visit your house, I want to help you husk corn, shell broad beans, do laundry, and give your dad a back massage."]
I had barely typed the word "surpass" when my eyelids closed.

I didn't sleep a wink last night.

I tossed and turned all night

I was so sleepy I could barely keep my eyes open.

I fell asleep quickly.

When I woke up, I glanced at the time and it was already afternoon.

On the phone screen was the chat history with Yang Chaoyue, but her head was spinning and she had forgotten what she wanted to send him.

Open Jiang Yang's chat box.

Seeing the message she had edited earlier, her gaze lingered on the last line: "I guess I really don't deserve to be an actor."

The message still hasn't been sent.

He stood up and looked at the contract spread out on the desk.

I watched it for a while.

"Can I really endure the hardships of being an actor?"

I carefully recalled the experiences of the past three days.

Looking at my meticulously cared-for hands, I recalled the frostbitten fingers of the girl working at the convenience store last night. I didn't even dare to give her hand cream, afraid of being treated as charity.

She dared not tell Jiang Yang that yesterday, at the public toilet on the east side of Sihui Long-Distance Bus Station, she saw a migrant worker holding in his urine because he couldn't bear to spend a yuan on the fee, and her first reaction was actually physiological nausea.

Then comes the feeling of heartache.

Nazha says she's kind, but is she really kind?
This kind of kindness must be based on a safe distance from which one does not need to personally experience the situation.

I suddenly realized that my so-called hard work was nothing more than a role-playing game in a privileged life.

I suddenly wanted to act.

Perhaps what they like is the spotlight in front of the camera, rather than the performance itself.

"Jiang Yang said he was willing to sign me, and that he would give me gigs as long as I signed."

Zhou Ye repeatedly picked up the pen and then put it down again.

The pen cap was twisted and cracked.

Am I worthy of signing this contract?

As soon as he murmured those words, Zhou Ye suddenly froze.

Because people who have truly experienced the hardships of life simply don't have time to think about whether they are a good match or not.

Just like when Yang Chaoyue was a waiter, he would never stare blankly at his cracked hands; he would simply wrap them in plastic bags and continue washing dishes.

She did not sign.

I went to the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face to wake myself up.

I remembered what my mother said to me.

I remembered the post I made on WeChat Moments during Chinese New Year.

Delete the line of text that you edited for Jiang Yang in the WeChat chat box.

Zhou Ye stared at himself in the mirror, water droplets dripping down his chin.

Why should someone like me, who was protected and raised like this, have to use other people's scars to prove my pain?
She picked at the edge of the sink with her fingers.

Suddenly, he splashed the water he had filled his hands with onto the mirror.

The water-blurred mirror reflected her distorted face.

Yang Chaoyue's suffering is real, but his dream is fake.

But is a false dream no longer a dream?

She messaged Jiang Yang: ["Jiang Yang, are you busy?"] (End of Chapter)