I’ve been drifting around the blogging world for six years, starting in 2011. Looking back at post after post, a lot of it feels disposable enough that I’ve half wanted to delete the whole pile.

If it’s technical writing, there are experts everywhere. If it’s literary style, there is no shortage of essays that feel graceful and effortless. My own writing has rarely had much of either. Whatever comments I’ve managed to get have come less from the articles themselves and more from the little bit of familiarity built up over the years.

The bigger problem is that the blog never really had a clear identity. People stopped by, took one look, and left. In the language of website statistics, the bounce rate was simply too high.

That kind of thing can’t go on forever. Since I’ve already committed myself to keeping this blog going for ten years, I need a reason strong enough to carry it forward. So I started thinking about what kind of theme could actually sustain it.

What finally came to mind was this: the time I grew up in left marks that are hard to replicate. Every place has its own customs, and even short distances can produce completely different ways of living. The years I lived through, the village life, the games, the habits, the small things people once took for granted—those are probably the most distinct things I have to share.

So I changed the description of the blog. What used to be "a record of my hobbies and the things I tinkered with" has become "sharing my stories." I also opened a new section simply called Stories, as a place to write about the experiences that were shaped by a different time and are not so common anymore.

One of the clearest signs of middle age, at least to me, is this: what is right in front of you slips from memory, while the past refuses to fade. And the older I get, the stronger that feeling becomes.

Children today have better material conditions, but their lives often seem much narrower. They grow up in cramped apartments, spend whole days at home with television and electronic devices, and have very little real social life. In some ways, their inner world feels less lively than ours did.

Back then, all the children in the village ran wild together. We spent our days outdoors, mixing freely, inventing fun, turning ordinary places into our whole universe. Even now, just thinking back on it can still make the blood rush.

For now, I’ve sketched out a few directions for this new section—something of a promise to myself, and maybe a pit I’m deliberately digging so I’ll have to fill it:

1. Childhood games
2. Hometown customs
3. Stories from childhood