I’m thinking about so many things today as I eat dinner, trying to remember what day it is—Saturday, I think. I worked all day. A clean, productive day. Clocked in, clocked out, eight hours exactly. Now I’m eating raw broccoli and miso soup, shrimp added at the last minute. It’s simple and it’s good. There’s something grounding about it.

I keep thinking about social media. It’s still important—obviously. The platforms matter. But what matters more now is how the content is delivered. Podcasts feel played out. Short reels feel played out. People are hungry for something deeper, something with layers, something they can touch and move around inside of. Content that has surfaces. Content that invites participation. The next wave is going to look different, even if it uses the same tools.

Most of my time is spent trying to answer one question: how do I communicate what I’m actually trying to say? I don’t want to invent a new platform. I like Instagram. I like newsletters. I like chat. I don’t need anything flashy or new or complicated. What I care about is using the same tools everyone else has and creating something that didn’t exist before—some new way of speaking to people, some new frequency of exchange.

That’s where everything I make comes from. Not just how I post, but what I write about. I call myself a real estate entertainer. I made that title up because it felt right, because it felt like the cleanest way to name what I was already doing. I realized that if I fused these two worlds—real estate and entertainment—I could go very far. At first I aimed for a million dollars. I read The Million Dollar Real Estate Agent and thought, this is it. This is how I make it.

Then I started layering in the art. Writing. Acting. Story. Performance. I ran the math again and stopped myself mid-thought. Real estate plus entertainment—real estate entertainment, rooted in art and human stories, not vanity or noise—was something else entirely. Bigger. Much bigger. That’s when I thought: I could be a billionaire with this bullshit.

A year or two later, AI arrived. Not quietly—loudly. All at once. Everyone using it. And I realized the ceiling had moved again. With AI, this business could reach a hundred billion dollars. Maybe more. Maybe something unthinkable. Could I be the first self-made trillionaire? I don’t know. Success is never guaranteed.

I trust God in all the steps. However far this goes isn’t really up to me. That part doesn’t feel like resignation—it feels like peace. If this journey takes me to $101, that’s still a win. I came here with $100. I gained something. Even if I fail, even if I end up in the red, at least I tried. At least I went down swinging, with something burning in my chest.

And then, somewhere between thoughts, the music starts playing.

It’s Show Me the Meaning of Being Lonely. From Millennium. A song I didn’t ask for, but one that arrives anyway.

Show me the meaning of being lonely.

It stops me. I feel like I need to record this moment. Like something just clicked. Like I won something small and invisible.

The song keeps going. My thoughts scatter. Practical things intrude—money, logistics, RMB stuff, noise—but the line lingers. The question lingers.

Show me the meaning of being lonely.

The possibility of making it in America is intoxicating. It’s like a perfume you catch for half a second—so beautiful you stop walking just to breathe it in—but it’s already gone. And you want it again. You want to know what it is, who’s wearing it, what brand it is. That scent is what the American dream was to me as a kid. It perfumed my entire imagination. I wanted it desperately.

Lately I’ve felt ready for different people. People who push me forward instead of weighing me down. Not out of cruelty—just momentum. No matter where you start in life, there are infinite ways to grow. You can take your life anywhere if you’re willing to endure the process.

The first half of life has to be spent underground. You have to be crushed by the elements. In the dark. In the soil. Wet. Cold. Frozen. You have to suffer. You have to be buried. That backward pressure is what creates spring. The harder and longer the compression, the higher you can eventually jump.

That’s probably why I feel steady now. Happiness doesn’t swing the way it used to. Bad days don’t destroy me. Good days don’t inflate me. Things happen, and I watch them happen. It feels like a movie, and I’m inside it but not owned by it. None of it touches who I am at the core.

The feelings still come—anger, sadness, curiosity, desire—but they don’t shock me anymore. Oh, I’m angry. That makes sense. Oh, I’m sad. I remember this one. They pass through. I don’t cling. I recognize them as mine and let them move on

I realized happiness isn’t excitement or achievement. It’s the ability to enjoy your own presence. To be entertained by yourself. Someone’s here—that’s nice. No one’s here—that’s even nicer. I tinker constantly. With my house, my books, my body, my hair, my cookware, my cat, my computer. I’m rarely bored with myself.

When people are around, I can enjoy them too. But real happiness is the capacity to be alone. To reach the deepest loneliness—the moment you realize you truly have nobody—and be okay with it. When that loneliness becomes pleasurable, social life becomes optional instead of necessary.

Life moves in spirals. Back and forth. Growth is cyclical. You return to the same places, but never as the same person. Sometimes when you feel furthest from what you want, you’re actually closest to it. The darkest moment before the dawn.

And if you want to be social, successful, or wealthy, you have to understand people. You have to communicate. You have to be agreeable. That ability comes from solitude.

Loneliness makes a good salesperson.
Loneliness makes a good leader.

That’s all it takes.

How long can you be alone?
How long can you be… totally alone.