July arrives with heat already gathering in the air. When the weather turns dry and oppressive, the mind often follows. Things that should be simple start to feel tangled, and small annoyances can set off a temper for no good reason. Looking back at the first six months of 2014, that was more or less how I felt for much of the time—as if my mood had been left out under a blazing sun.

I barely remember January now. I have never been good at holding on to things I consider trivial, like who upset me or what ruined my mood on a given day. Since it was the beginning of a new year, I imagine I was fairly content. The Lunar New Year was approaching, part of my wages had been paid, and having money in hand made life feel lighter. Maybe that is why the unhappy parts of the month slipped away so easily.

February opened with the Spring Festival, but this year the holiday passed quietly. My father and I did not return to our hometown. I still cannot say whether I was avoiding a familiar place I did not want to face, or whether going back simply felt meaningless. In any case, I stayed where I was. Every day, apart from cooking, I sat in front of the computer and watched movies. I even kept count on WeChat: in one stretch I watched more than a dozen major films from 2013, catching up on everything I had missed over the course of the year.

At the same time, I watched iPartment. I rarely watch television, but sitcoms are an exception. In all of 2013, and then through the next six months of 2014, there was one show I watched almost every day: My Own Swordsman. After work, once I got home and started cooking, Guizhou TV Channel 4 would air it at exactly six o’clock. Day after day I watched the same episodes again and again. I have no idea how many times in total, but certainly no fewer than ten. In a way, it resembled my job. My work also meant sitting in front of a computer, drawing the same lines over and over. The difference was that those same lines could still produce different things. And somehow, even in fragmented reruns, My Own Swordsman could still make me laugh every time.

That month I also went to Guiyang and stopped by my aunt’s home. I did not stay long before leaving. Some things, once they happen, seem sealed by fate. I wanted to face them directly, but never quite found the courage. At most, I cried inwardly. I still could not truly accept my mother’s death; even thinking about it could bring tears immediately. Yet in front of other people, I wore the expression that says the dead cannot be kept, and the living must stay strong. I have a habit of using excuses that run opposite to what I really feel, burying the truth underneath. I care deeply, but act indifferent. Perhaps I think it makes me look stronger. Who would openly admit to having a fragile heart? I would not.

By March, spring had arrived. Under the introduction of a colleague, Sister Li, I took on the first comprehensive project of my design career and became genuinely busy. Once you throw yourself into something and focus on it completely, time stops announcing itself. The month passed in a flash.

April was consumed by my father’s health. He felt unwell, so I took him to a traditional Chinese medicine hospital, where he stayed for eighteen days of recuperation. Most of that month revolved around him, while work continued in parallel. Since my mother passed away, his health had visibly declined. More than that, he seemed haunted by the fear of death. Perhaps only after someone closest to you is gone do you understand how precious life is, and how hateful death can feel.

After April, whenever I was with him, he spoke more and more about dying. He would say he was finished, that he was about to die, that ghosts were coming for him. I responded by shouting, trying to explain things, sometimes even scolding him. There is a saying that long illness wears down even filial children. I do not know whether I count as a good son or not. I did everything I was supposed to do, while also carrying the pressures life kept piling on me. But I could feel my patience thinning. I started losing my temper at him. More than once I shouted, “You keep saying you’re going to die—why aren’t you dead yet? Then go die!”

And then I would look at my father sitting there in silence, and it felt like a knife turning in my chest. I knew that behavior was wrong. Compared with the people in the news who care for their parents with endless devotion, I fell far short. Yet I still kept a hard face and a hard mouth, unable to give him kindness in the moment. The next day I would calm myself down and go back to the usual routine: cooking, working, listening to him describe one discomfort after another. I could never tell whether he was truly sick or had simply become used to speaking that way. The only thing that steadied my frayed nerves was that every hospital checkup came back within normal range. For all his constant complaints, his body was still alright.

In May, outside of work, I was invited to a classmate’s wedding. It happened to coincide with my grandfather’s birthday back in my hometown, and since my father had been taken there for a visit, I found time to attend the wedding. That was when it struck me that most of the people I had once gone to school with were already married. Many of them were even carrying children in their arms.

I had rarely given serious thought to my own marriage. I always assumed there was still plenty of time. But standing there, I realized it was not early at all. I was already twenty-six. Time says nothing, but it pushes people forward all the same.

June brought another graduation season. Countless students were facing the first major exam of their lives, and my nephew was one of them. When his scores came out, he had earned over 600 points—a strong result by Guizhou standards, enough that getting into a key university would not be a problem. The difficult part was choosing what to apply for. Relatives discussed it for days, and my cousin was driven nearly mad by all the opinions. Still, it was the kind of trouble that comes with happiness.

Ever since high school, I have had an instinctive aversion to exams, but even so I found myself wondering what major I would want my own child to study one day—or whether I would simply let the child choose. Of course, that assumes I have a child to begin with. Around then, I got another call from another classmate, again inviting me to a wedding. Maybe I should find someone too. I still do not know why I always turned down blind introductions before. Maybe it was because I never really knew what kind of person I was looking for.

And then July arrived, and with it the realization that 2014 was already half gone.

Apart from work, the first half of the year had been remarkably plain. Maybe in the second half I should do something truly exciting—something strong enough to jolt my stiffening soul awake. But what could I actually do?

Looking back, the craziest thing I have ever done was run away from home without saying goodbye. The wildest plan I never carried out was to cycle from Shenzhen to Tibet. That dream no longer seems likely in the days ahead. Or perhaps I just need to come up with something even crazier.