I've always believed that people actually die twice.

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The first death is simple and brutal.

The body ceases to function, breathing stops, and the flesh returns to the earth.

From that moment on, there will no longer be a version of me who can walk, speak, or be touched by others.

The funeral ends, the grave is marked, and this marks a physiological end.

The idea of a second death was first planted when I watched "Coco."

That setting in the movie, I can never forget: when in the real world, the last person who remembers you also forgets you, you will completely dissipate in the spirit world.

It's not a sudden collapse, but a quiet turning into ashes.

The first death is when the body is gone.

The second is when no one remembers you ever existed.

Many traditional Chinese rituals have always quietly fought against this second death.

Qingming, cold clothes, New Year, burning paper, tomb-sweeping... to many, these are just formalities, a hassle, but to me, they serve one purpose: on this side of the world, to remember you.

As long as someone remembers, you haven't truly disappeared.

Thinking of this, I develop a less utilitarian understanding of relationships between people.

And because of this, I feel complicated about the increasingly popular way of living through self-contraction.

I fully understand and respect such people.

They form their own systems, are independent and self-consistent, can handle their emotions, and produce their own meaning.

They proactively prune social branches, avoid relatives, skip New Year visits, and maintain relationships that are exhausting.

They believe life is precious, and time should be spent on more worthwhile things.

From a logical standpoint, there's nothing wrong with that.

But I also know very well that I can't become that kind of person.

I'm sensitive inside, need external responses, need emotions to flow within relationships.

I can't rely on a completely closed internal system to hold myself steady.

For me, those seemingly useless interactions between people are precisely what provide me with anchors.

So I still visit relatives during New Year, go to family gatherings, and drop by neighbors.

I remember some festivals, some faces.

Not out of obligation or face, but because these actions themselves make me genuinely feel — I live within a structure full of human warmth.

Sometimes I even think that these traditions have persisted not because they are advanced, but because they truly work in some people's hearts.

They make people feel that living is not a lonely straight line rushing toward the end, but a web with warmth, origins, and echoes.

Looking at these two things together is quite interesting:

On one side, modern life pushes us to become more independent, lighter, and less entangled.

On the other side, deep in our hearts, we still fear being completely forgotten, afraid of becoming a name no one mentions anymore.

Perhaps life

is not necessarily about living as a completely self-sufficient iron wall, nor is it destined to be dragged down by relationships.

It's simply about honestly admitting: some can live richly in solitude, while others need to be confirmed in others' memories that they have existed.

At least for me, those traditional, slow, even somewhat clumsy connections make me feel that being someone who cares and is cared for is itself quite meaningful.