It was another heart-pounding Monday morning.
At 11:11 AM, the ChiNext board touched 2782 points, a new high for the past three years. Nearly a full year had passed since the last wave of public euphoria, and this time, the revelry had already lasted for two months. For the past three weeks, it had been a topic of hopeful conversation for everyone, regardless of whether they followed the market.
Some sat in the shade of a tree, dreaming of the next new high; others, in their air-conditioned rooms, quietly reduced their positions. Some were rushing into the market, not caring whether they understood how it worked—a rising price is something everyone can comprehend.
Whether the cash in your pocket is your own or borrowed, at this very moment, as long as you can exchange it for stocks, you are embracing a weighty hope.
The memory of pain does not haunt a person for a lifetime. A devastating blow might signify the end of one’s destiny, but a minor cold and fever won’t make someone live in fear of a well rope for the next ten years.
In the midst of helplessness, making money is, after all, a good thing. It can reduce the pressure of expenses exceeding income; it can afford you a leisurely and satisfying morning tea at a restaurant on a boring weekend.
However, most of the time, what the market gives back to participants hoping to “get lucky” is a sharp, painful cut. Perhaps you’ve just received a modest bonus and see your eager colleagues describing how they’ll make a killing in the market and take a spontaneous trip before the end of summer. So you, too, load your gun, take aim at your favorite stock, and go all-in. Then, whenever you have a free moment, you pull out your phone to refresh the quotes, calculating how much profit your freshly earned bonus will hatch.
Of course, if all goes smoothly, your account holdings will grow slowly, until one day, they shrink rapidly. The bonus you earned through hard work slowly turns into the moon’s reflection in the water, a flower in the mirror.
In the market, be it for speculators or investors, only those who immerse themselves in it for the long term have a chance at returns. There are aggressive investors and conservative ones, but the ones who survive in the market are almost always the professional investors. This has been true throughout history, everywhere.
Lin Song was on his way to make a delivery when he saw an injured black dog lying in the middle of a small road—a bad omen. He didn’t stop to investigate. He reversed out of the side road, planning to take a detour.
There was always a Cadillac parked at the intersection. On the side facing the sun, two shabby wooden planks leaned against the tires. Lin Song had always wondered why anyone would lean planks against tires. Was it to warn passing vehicles not to hit it? But those planks were far too inconspicuous.
This time, as he turned his car around, he finally understood. The side of the Cadillac faced the rising eastern sun, and the wide road offered no shade. The wooden planks on the wheels were there to block the sunlight, to prevent the tires from being damaged by the blistering sun.
The detour was narrow and chaotic. His Peugeot 508 ran over something, and half the car’s body bounced into the air. The dashboard instantly sounded an alarm: “Right Rear Tire Rupture”—not the gentle warning of “Insufficient Tire Pressure.”
Lin Song activated his voice navigation and found the nearest auto repair shop was 2.8 kilometers away. He knew he couldn’t drive that far on a flat tire’s rim.
There should be a quick repair shop among the small storefronts next to the driving school on Mahu Road. Fixing a tire wasn’t a difficult job.
The sidewall of the right-rear tire had a 5-centimeter vertical gash, sliced open by gravel on the roadside. The tire was beyond repair, its fate sealed.
Lin Song called Tuhu Automotive. After confirming the tire model, the representative quoted 730 yuan for an in-stock tire and said they could arrange for a technician to bring a spare first, so he could then drive to the shop for a replacement.
The owner of the roadside quick-repair shop quoted 710 yuan. If Lin Song bought the tire himself, the labor fee would be only 50 yuan. The new tire had to be delivered from the Huangjinkou Auto Parts Market and would take 45 minutes.
Lin Song sat in front of the sweltering shop for 40 minutes, his mouth parched. He got up to buy a bottle of water from the convenience store next door.
Inside the store, shelves of packages waiting for pickup took up most of the space. The shop was dark, with no lights on. As he walked to the other end, a young woman’s voice asked, “Buying water?” “Yeah.” “It’s in the fridge by the door.”
In the two standing coolers, there wasn’t a single bottle of the unsweetened tea he wanted. Lin Song paid three yuan for a lukewarm Coca-Cola.
About ten minutes later, a yellow taxi pulled up in front of the shop. The owner opened the trunk and took out a brand-new, plastic-wrapped tire. The model was identical to the one that had burst on his 508.
While idling, he browsed through some history. Emperor Taizu of Song, Zhao Kuangyin, usurped the throne at 33 and died at 49. Emperor Taizong, Zhao Guangyi, usurped the throne at 37 and died at 58. Emperor Zhenzong, Zhao Heng, ascended the throne at 29 and died at 54. Emperor Renzong, Zhao Zhen, ascended at 12 and died at 53. Emperor Yingzong, Zhao Shu, ascended at 31 and died at 35. Emperor Shenzong, Zhao Xu, ascended at 19 and died at 37.
The first six emperors of the Song Dynasty reigned for a total of 125 years and lived to an average age of just 48. At that age, their lives were considerably shorter than those of many common people. Ah, well. So be it. Life isn’t easy for anyone.