We Know No Balance — Counterpoint

Confusion, at Its Finest

By Li Yin ‘26

The buzzing engine, the faint cabin light, the sharp cry of vexed infants, the muffled noise of food carts rolling. I wake up shivering with Hong Kong thousands of miles away. Or maybe more. Everything weaves together by chance, and the intricate, complicated, and unpredictable world carries us like the ocean carries a wooden vessel. The vessel floats, thinking it owns itself, its capabilities, its existence. But the next second the ocean may decide to swallow it whole.

I close my eyes again.

***

The next thing I know the rays of sunlight through the windows of my quarantine hotel are going dim. Rain—the pitter patter conceals the brightness of the sun, demanding that its darkness and dampness, too, have a chance to nourish the Earth. What comes with end-of-June Gloom is nonetheless essential to making all things grow. Nature speaks the language of balance fluently, wielding the yin and yang into cycles of life and death, where nothing can exist without an opposite other.

Humans, though, have grown to condemn contrast—difference is despicable, and balance becomes the nemesis of productivity. Is it that we are so segregated from Nature that we lose our fluency in this ancient language? When was the last time I filled my lungs with fresh air, uncontaminated by the fumes and dust? When was the last time I let my feet touch green grass, feeling the dirt as it seeps through my toes? I cannot remember. Maybe if we all climb a tree and sit there for a few minutes every day, the world will be a better place.

Ha! Tell that to the General Secretary.

***

July looms over the neon lights like a veil, falling on the city. Hong Kong is like a vibrant yet dormant pearl—its shell is shut, isolated from the rest of the world. Here, feelings of anger, confusion, nostalgia, and hope all crash and collide with each other, like my restless thoughts in this secluded cubicle.

In the distance, I see his helicopters flying over Victoria Harbor: celebrating the 25th anniversary of Hong Kong’s return to us, the end of our century of humiliation, the refinding of a piece of our soul once carved away, and they are to blame.

But perhaps it’s true. The colonization of Hong Kong occured because the West didn’t understand balance. The taking-back of the city, however, ironically symbolizes China’s illiteracy in balance—it wants more; more power, more influence, and more loyalty. But why does no one understand that stability cannot be achieved through violence? An invasive species never creates a stable ecosystem by taking other plants’ rights to live. Nature knows.

I guess it’s different though. Besides, plants never give up their lives willingly, do they?

***

The first thing you are taught the moment you are born is to obey, to keep your mouth shut. We as a race must be hardworking and never complain. Stop crying. Stop yelling. Be a good kid. Submit yourself to others. Listen to the elders, your ancestors. Authorities should eat first, sit first, enter a room first, raise their glass higher than yours when you toast. You live for them, die for them, until one day you earn your right to be one of them. And someone else begins this cycle again. Submission runs in the crimson in our veins, the yellow of our skin, and the black of our pupils. Tradition says: cower to someone else, put your thoughts and desires away because another wishes differently. We will never find balance, never find stability, as long as we choose to give up who we are just so another can be indulged more than they should be.

There are so many caught in the middle of this paradox—those who criticize how the red machine operates but oil its gears by upholding rotting traditions. They say that over so many centuries, our people have lived bitter lives, burdened by cruel rulers. They say we already lost the ability to live with freedom. But have we ever truly tried, or even wanted, to break free?

***

Am I even trying? Or wanting? Because I don’t think anyone will ever read this essay. I may never muster the courage to announce its existence. Does writing still have value without an audience? What is art without the eyes of a beholder? I think all of this still matters though; it is the creator’s act of creation, not the existence of an audience, that gives art meaning. I am writing a way out, writing to find something I didn’t know I was looking for. Maybe that is all that matters?

Li Yin ‘26 (ly104) has found some hidden gems after ignoring Yelp ratings and the starts on GoodReads. From the October 2022 issue.