Seventeen

Scientists say human perception of time follows a logarithmic curve: a summer at age five feels like a century, while the years after eighteen begin to accelerate and collapse gradually. By this calculation, we are now at a mysterious critical point — the last few grains of sand in the upper half of the hourglass can already see the mound accumulating below. An awkward in-between.  

The confusion of being seventeen might lie in how we possess both the purity of a child and nearly the narrative authority of an adult. We begin to dissect the surface of the world, catching glimpses of the undercurrents beneath. We ponder the eternal question, "Who am I?"—speculating about the shape of five-dimensional space while gazing at the stars late at night, discerning the spectrum of human nature in the web of interpersonal relationships, and decoding the codes of society in the gap between books and reality.

 Seventeen is an expedition to measure the boundaries of the universe with a worldview that hasn’t yet solidified. Every step risks landing on a cognitive fault line, leading to constant bumps and bruises, yet also to the discovery of new territories everywhere.  

The privilege of being seventeen is standing at the pass of life, with the vast plains of adulthood ahead and the gentle valleys of childhood behind. The noise trying to "define who you are" can indeed make you doubt yourself, every fall can leave you like a drowned rat. But the amazing thing is, every time you get back up, you can feel new strength growing in your bones.

"But the sun, it is both sunset and sunrise at every moment. As it extinguishes itself descending the mountain, gathering the bleak afterglow, it is simultaneously igniting itself climbing the other side, spreading blazing brilliance." This quote from Shi Tiesheng is a perfect metaphor for seventeen—you are both the setting adolescent and the dawning adult. This age, with its relatively high tolerance for error, allows you to leap out of your comfort zone with a sense of ceremony, allying yourself with uncertainty.

Because you know, no matter what, there’s always tomorrow.  

The task of being seventeen is never to urgently find standard answers in the middle of the hourglass. The sand is destined to flow, and what you must learn is to peacefully coexist with all the newly awakened questions. Sow seeds in the soil of confusion, take root in the rain of confusion, and quietly grow in the dark night of self-doubt.

"Alyosha, don’t be afraid. The train has stopped up there. When he smiles, the sky brightens." This is my favorite line from Jiangwen’s movie—when life seems stuck on dilemma, when growth appears halted in a dark tunnel, we must believe that a smile can become the signal for dawn. It’s not childish optimism but seeing new momentum in complete stagnation, touching the outline of courage in utter fear.  

"Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?" Mary Oliver asked in The Summer Day. Seventeen is the moment you begin to construct your answer. Your answer doesn’t need to be perfect or eternal; it only needs to be a sincere sentence spoken in your own voice.

On the logarithmic curve of time, this segment may be fleeting, but precisely because of its brevity, it’s worth engraving with all your senses—using your yet-unworn incisive mind to collect the light and shadow of every dusk; using your newly awakened reason to interpret the poetry of the world; using your still-soft heart to love, to hurt, to understand.  

When you look back years later, you’ll realize that seventeen was never a station to rush through. It’s the alchemical moment of your soul, a quantum state where all possibilities haven’t yet collapsed. Here, you are both the questioner and the rudiment of the answer; both the observer and the observed universe. The hourglass still flows, but you don’t need to hurry to become which grain of sand—you might as well be the wind that lifts all the grains, the beam of light that illuminates their falling trajectory.