A Six-Story Building Lives in My Heart
Introduction: Oh, I Think I’m Stuck Again!
Have you ever had moments like these?
It’s late, and you’re staring at your screen, vowing, “This is the last short video,” only to find yourself still scrolling tirelessly half an hour later, with a hint of remorse and an even stronger urge for “just one more.” It feels like your rational mind is shouting from the shore, “Come back!” while your body, in a small boat, happily drifts towards the endless sea of “just five more minutes.”
Or, faced with an important task, you know exactly what to do, yet you’re as if under a spell, preferring to mop the floor, clean the windows, comb the cat, or even enthusiastically study the rice cooker’s manual, just to avoid touching that task. We charmingly call this “finding the right state,” but deep down, we know it’s “strategic evasion.” Until the night before the deadline, we force ourselves into heroic feats with a hundred cups of coffee and endless regret.
Or perhaps, you meticulously planned a perfect self-improvement program, such as “get abs in three months” or “read 50 books in half a year,” even downloading the habit-tracking app. The result? That gym membership card became the newest and most dormant card in your wallet; most of those books were opened only to the prologue, serving as the most stable cover for your instant noodles.
At these times, we’re like a machine that suddenly stalls, or a game character who can’t find a save point. A voice inside us shouts, “Move! You can do it!” But our bodies and thoughts seem to be entangled in an invisible, sticky spiderweb. This spiderweb smells of guilt, feels of anxiety; it traps us, and the more we struggle, the tighter it wraps around us. We blame ourselves, we can’t understand: “What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I do it?”
Let me tell you, this might not be because we’re lazy, nor because we lack willpower. It’s very likely just because we’re lost, and what’s more, we’re lost in our own house.
Imagine that our inner world is actually a magical and mysterious six-story building. This building isn’t made of steel and concrete; it’s built from our thoughts, emotions, memories, and dreams. It’s unique and belongs only to us. Each floor has a different view, housing different states of ourselves.
And the “stuck” troubles we encounter are like a leak in the kitchen on the second floor. If we just stand on the second floor, busy with mops and buckets, we might find the leak getting worse, eventually flooding even the bedroom. Because the root of the leak might be in the fifth-floor bathroom, where an old faucet named “I don’t deserve a good life” wasn’t turned off tightly.
So, just circling the floor where the problem occurs won’t solve it. We need a blueprint of this building and an old-fashioned elevator that can go up and down. We need to go upstairs to see the view, and also go down to the basement storage room to rummage through old things.
In the time to come, I’d like to invite you to join me as a mind explorer. We’ll bring no judgment, only a good pot of tea and full curiosity, to push open every closed door in this building. From the Complaint Game Room on the first floor, filled with grumbling, to the Bridge on the fourth floor with its magical compass, and then to the Top Floor Garden where you can see a sky full of stars…
We’ll go see which floor that “stuck” self is trapped on. And then, we’ll walk over, gently pat their shoulder, offer them a warm cup of tea, and say, “Hey, I’m here. Don’t be afraid, it’s a bit confusing here, getting lost is normal. Let’s take the elevator up and see the view together.”
Ready? Our adventure begins now!
Chapter 1: Ground Floor · The Complaint Game Room (Environment Level)
“Ding—”
With a somewhat vintage sound, like an old toaster popping up, our building’s elevator gently stopped on the first floor.
The elevator doors slowly slid open, and we arrived at the first level of this mind building.
Wow, it’s so bright here! The entire space is like a huge, spotless glass bubble, with large, bright floor-to-ceiling windows on all sides. The view outside is unobstructed: bustling streets, hurrying pedestrians, the humming cranes at a distant construction site, and the sky above, sometimes clear, sometimes cloudy. The light here is exceptionally good, almost dazzling.
The people in the room, each with an incredibly comfortable-looking rocking chair, whose design is very ingenious—once you sit down, you’re enveloped by a gentle force, comfortably facing away from the center of the room and towards the window. Their postures are remarkably consistent: leaning back, brows slightly furrowed, right index finger firmly pointing out the window, muttering to themselves as if participating in a grand, silent chorus.
“Look, look, another traffic jam! I knew I’d be late today, it’s all because of this damned traffic!” A young man in a plaid shirt with somewhat messy hair—let’s call him Alex—said indignantly to the person beside him. He was supposed to meet a very important client today, and because of this traffic jam, he felt that a multi-million dollar contract had already flown away on wings.
“Isn’t that the truth,” a capable-looking woman with her hair in a bun—let’s call her Linda—immediately echoed. She pointed to an office building outside the window and said, “My proposal was rejected by the boss again today, he just doesn’t get it! I worked three sleepless nights on a minimalist design, and he insists it’s ‘not grand enough,’ telling me to add colorful black and spinning, jumping logos. How can I even work like this?”
“And my roommate, oh my god, he’s a disaster! His socks can stand up on their own, and his takeout boxes can cultivate new ecosystems, I feel like I’m living in a landfill!” A girl wearing noise-canceling headphones took them off and excitedly joined the conversation. She felt that all her creative inspiration was being sucked away by that pile of dirty clothes.
This is our first stop—the “Complaint Game Room.”
The residents here are especially good at a game called “It’s All Your Fault.” Their eyes are like high-precision radars, always scanning for every imperfection in the external environment: weather, traffic, boss, colleagues, family, friends… even if the soy milk at the breakfast shop isn’t sweet enough today, it can become irrefutable evidence of their bad mood for the day.
Their catchphrase is: “If only…”
“If only the weather were good today, my mood wouldn’t be so bad.” “If only the boss weren’t so picky, my project would have succeeded long ago.” “If only I were born into a wealthy family, I wouldn’t have to work so hard.”
These “if onlys” are like small doors leading to an imagined perfect world, but they only stand at the doorway and look, never stepping inside. Because complaining is much easier, and safer, than changing.
Does it sound familiar? To be honest, I confess, I used to be a regular in this game room, the kind with an annual pass.
My friend, Xiao Tuan, used to be a VIP player in this game room, skilled enough to teach classes.
Xiao Tuan is a talented UI designer, whose dream is to create an app as simple and elegant as a work of art. But after graduation, he joined a company that specializes in creating “high-end, grand, and classy” applications for “money-is-no-object” clients.
Thus, his daily life became a tragic tug-of-war.
“Ring, ring—” When his alarm clock went off, he’d first check his work group chat. If his boss had sent some “ideas” at three in the morning, he’d sigh: “Ugh, back to that dreadful place again.” Before leaving, he’d check the weather forecast. If it was a sunny day, he’d say: “Annoying, it’s so hot, I’ll sweat as soon as I go out.” If it was rainy, he’d say: “It’s over, definitely going to be traffic, and my shoes will get wet.” In short, no weather could satisfy him.
At the office, if it was quiet, he’d feel the atmosphere was oppressive and suffocating. If colleagues were chatting, he’d feel they were too noisy, disturbing his focus on “pixel-perfect alignment.”
When his boss wanted to discuss a proposal, his inner drama would automatically play a high-definition bullet-screen version: “Here it comes again, more nitpicking. He doesn’t understand whitespace and breathing room, he only knows how to point fingers with his old-fashioned aesthetic of ‘make the text bigger, the color redder.’”
Once, he sent me a WeChat voice message late at night, past 11 PM, with the sound of frantic keyboard typing in the background. “Guess what I’m still doing?” His voice was filled with exhaustion and anger. “Still revising that ‘colorful black’?” I asked. “You bet! The client said the logo wasn’t prominent enough, and the boss told me to add a neon dynamic effect, preferably with a 3D rotation! Oh my god, this is a health app for middle-aged and elderly people! Do they want users to have a heart attack on the spot? This aesthetic, this environment, I’m really fed up! I feel like my talent is being murdered little by little by this dreadful place. No choice, the environment is just like this, what can I do?”
You see, this is the biggest trap of living on the first floor—the “helplessness” swamp.
This swamp, on the surface, seems safe, even a bit comfortable. Because as long as you stay in it, all problems are not my problems, and all failures are not my responsibility. I am always the innocent, pitiful victim persecuted by the harsh environment. This feeling of being on a “moral high ground” can sometimes be quite addictive.
But if you stay too long, you’ll find yourself slowly sinking. When our gaze is always outward, attributing the cause of all problems to the external environment, we are actually handing over the remote control of our lives to others. We become puppets on strings; the weather is a string, the boss is a string, traffic is a string… any slight disturbance can easily manipulate our joys and sorrows.
We feel trapped, unable to move, filled with helpless anger and grievance.
But dear explorer, we must also see the treasure on this floor.
Being able to clearly see the influence of the environment on us is the first step towards growth. Residents of the first floor often possess very keen perception. They are like brilliant detectives, able to accurately find all clues at the crime scene. Recognizing that “traffic jams do affect mood” and “a picky boss does increase work difficulty” shows that we are not living in a vacuum; we have a deep insight into reality.
This sensitivity is a gift. It allows us to feel the complexity and subtlety of the world.
This is important.
However, an excellent detective, after collecting clues, doesn’t sit at the crime scene complaining about too many messy clues. They pin all the clues on a whiteboard, then step back and start thinking: “Based on these clues, what should I do next?”
So, the first floor is a great starting point, but we cannot live here forever.
We need to acknowledge the power of the environment, but not surrender to it. We need to slowly and gently pull back the finger pointing out the window, and look at our own palm. Then, from that comfortable rocking chair that makes you not want to get up, stand up and turn around.
For the first time, you’ll discover that in the center of this room, there has always been an old, bronze-colored elevator, glowing faintly. It has always been there; we just never looked back at it.
Come, let’s press that slightly cool button with the upward arrow together.
Chapter 2: Second Floor Workshop · The Busy Hamster Wheel (Behavior Level)
“Ding—”
The elevator doors slowly slid open again, and a wave of heat mixed with sweat, oil, and a certain fervent energy rushed towards us.
This place is a world apart from the leisurely glass room on the first floor. Before us is a huge, brightly lit workshop, filled with “bang bang bang” hammering sounds, “sizzle sizzle sizzle” welding noises, and the shouts of people cheering themselves on. Everyone is like a wind-up toy soldier, with “Strive” headbands on their foreheads, constantly in motion.
They’re no longer complaining; this is a huge step forward! They’ve pulled back the fingers that once pointed out the window, clenching them tightly into fists, with two large characters painted in red on their palms: “Action!”
The residents here believe in “No pain, no gain” and “Great effort yields miracles.” Their catchphrase is: “I’m not doing enough yet.”
“My performance is poor, it must be because I haven’t visited enough clients!” A salesman named Jack is making calls against a wall covered with “Today’s Goal: 200 Calls” slogans. His phone receiver is polished shiny from the sweat on his palm.
“I’ve gained three pounds, it must be because I haven’t worked out hard enough!” A girl named Sarah is sweating profusely on the treadmill, setting the speed to a level where she’s almost flying off, muttering to herself: “Burn my calories!”
“My child only scored 98 this time, it must be because I haven’t supervised his homework long enough!” A mother, holding a textbook thicker than a brick, is frowning, planning her child’s next hour of study.
Remember our friend Xiao Tuan, who successfully escaped from the “Complaint Game Room” on the first floor? He got up from that comfortable rocking chair, stepped into the elevator, and ambitiously pressed the button for the second floor.
He told himself: “No more complaining! From today on, my fate is in my own hands! I will take action and change everything!”
And so, Xiao Tuan’s life became like a video tape played at 16x speed.
To avoid rush hour, he set his alarm from 7
to 6AM. Before dawn, he was already rushing out the door, buying two steamed buns downstairs, stuffing them into his mouth while running, squeezing onto the rush hour subway like a gust of wind. He felt that by using others’ sleeping time to commute, he was already ahead of the game.To satisfy his boss and clients, he no longer argued. When the boss said “the logo needs to be colorful black,” he gritted his teeth and said “Yes boss, no problem boss”; when the client said “it still doesn’t feel grand enough,” he smiled and said “You’re right, I’ll revise it immediately.” The light in his office was always the last one to go out in the entire building. He even bought a cot for the office, ready to battle until dawn at any moment.
To improve himself, he signed up for a bunch of online courses, filling his free time to the brim. He watched while eating, listened while walking, and didn’t even spare time in the restroom. His phone collected hundreds of short videos like “Learn XXX in 3 minutes” and “10 tips to make you XXX,” feeling like he was absorbing massive amounts of knowledge every day.
Xiao Tuan indeed changed. He became busier, more diligent, and… more exhausted.
He was like a top, spun rapidly by the whip in his own hand, unable to stop. He thought that if he spun fast enough, he could generate an upward current and make himself fly. But he gradually found that he was just spinning in place, and his head was getting dizzier, starting to see double.
His design proposals, revised eight hundred times, still didn’t impress his boss and clients. They always came up with new “feelings.” His body, due to long-term sleep deprivation and irregular meals, began to frequently sound alarms. Stomach pain, dizziness, and insomnia became his daily companions. Most of the courses he signed up for were only started, never to be opened again. Those saved short videos just lay quietly in the list, like a pile of unread old newspapers.
One late night, he messaged me again, it was almost 2 AM. This time there was no angry voice message, just a short, incredibly fragile line of text. He said: “I’ve tried so hard, why is it still not working? Am I really that stupid?”
You see, this is the trap of the second floor—the “brute force” trap, or the “busy hamster wheel.”
When we shift from complaining to acting, it’s a remarkable leap. We begin to realize that happiness and success cannot be gained by waiting and blaming; they must be fought for by ourselves. We take back a part of the steering wheel of our lives from others and grip it tightly in our own hands. This is worth a warm applause for ourselves!
This is the most precious treasure of the second floor—the willingness and power to act. All great stories begin with “doing.” Without action, even the most beautiful blueprint is just waste paper. The residents of the second floor are true warriors; they dare to declare war on life.
However, if there is only action, it’s like a race car with an F1 engine but no steering wheel, just furiously burning rubber in place, emitting plumes of black smoke and deafening roars, appearing grand but going nowhere.
Effort is a very, very valuable quality. But blind effort is an extremely cruel form of self-consumption. It will be like a black hole, draining our enthusiasm, eroding our confidence, and finally leading us from “it’s all the world’s fault” to another abyss—“it’s all my fault.”
Like Xiao Tuan, he desperately “did,” but rarely stopped to ask himself: “Am I doing it ‘right’?” “Is there a better ‘way’?”
He thought that by pressing the accelerator to the floor, he could reach his destination. But he didn’t realize he might have been circling a huge, endless track. The faster he ran, the further he got from the finish line.
So, dear explorer, when you find yourself working hard but feeling powerless, busy but lacking a sense of accomplishment, perhaps you need to step out of this bustling workshop and look for a more advanced elevator.
We need to go to a quieter place, look at a map, find some tools, and equip our race car with a sensitive steering wheel and a GPS navigation system.
Come, take a deep breath, untie your headband, and wipe away the sweat. Let’s head to the third floor together.
Chapter 3: Third Floor Study · The Magic Toolbox (Capability Level)
“Ding—”
The elevator doors slowly opened again, this time without heat waves or complaints. A serene scent, a mix of old books, wood, and faint coffee, wafted towards us, instantly soothing the anxiety and fatigue we’d absorbed in the second-floor workshop.
This is a vast, high-ceilinged duplex study, more like a magician’s secret attic. Tall bookshelves stretch from the floor deep into the unseen ceiling, packed with all sorts of books, from “How to Learn Like a Sponge” to “The Magic of Communicating with Anyone,” from “Code Complete” to “An Actor Prepares.”
The walls are adorned with complex flowcharts, colorful mind maps, and even some strange diagrams that look like martial arts manuals, such as a drawing of a small figure with “Five-Step Fist for Emotional Freedom” written next to it. The floor is scattered with various toolboxes, some labeled “Time Management,” others “Emotional First Aid,” and one sparkling, transparent crystal box with a small inscription: “Creativity Engine, Handle with Care.”
The residents here are completely different from those downstairs. They don’t complain, nor do they act blindly. Each holds a small notebook for jotting down inspirations, and their eyes sparkle with curiosity and a thirst for exploration. They believe in the saying: “There is always a way.”
Their catchphrases are: “How can I do this better?” or “Is there a better way?”
“This project is too complex. How can I break it down like LEGO bricks into smaller, executable tasks?” A girl with rimless glasses stands before a large whiteboard, drawing a complex mind map with different colored markers.
“I messed up that speech again; my heart races and my palms sweat as soon as I get on stage. How can I overcome this nervousness and express myself more confidently?” A boy in a hoodie sits earnestly on a corner sofa, reading a book called “The Art of Public Speaking,” occasionally waving his hand in the air as if practicing.
“I always lose my temper, and every time I argue with my family, I regret it deeply. Is there any way I can better manage my emotions instead of being led by them?” A woman in yoga pants sits cross-legged on a meditation cushion, taking a card from a “Emotional First Aid” toolbox, which reads “Pause-Breathe-Feel-Respond.”
This is the third floor’s “Magic Toolbox.”
Our friend Xiao Tuan, who was almost exhausted from running on the second floor, finally dragged his tired body, panting, to this place.
When he pushed open the heavy oak door to the third floor, he was stunned. He felt like Harry Potter walking into Diagon Alley for the first time; everything before his eyes shimmered with a magical glow.
“So… solving problems isn’t just about working hard!” he murmured, his voice tinged with a hint of grievance and relief.
And so, Xiao Tuan, like a compressed sponge dropped into water, began to absorb the nourishment here at an astonishing speed.
He no longer pulled all-nighters. Instead, from a toolbox called “Pomodoro Technique,” he learned how to divide his work time into 25-minute focused sprints and 5-minute recovery breaks, like setting game levels. He found that his concentration had improved like never before.
He no longer blindly said “okay” to his boss and clients. Instead, from a book called “Nonviolent Communication,” he learned how to act like a detective: first observe the facts, then express his feelings and needs, and finally make specific requests. Once, faced with his boss’s request for “colorful black,” instead of gritting his teeth and revising the draft as before, he said: “Boss, I understand you want this logo to be both steady and lively (observation and feeling). But I’m concerned that using too many highly saturated colors in one interface might cause eye fatigue for users and affect the app’s professional feel (need). What do you think, could we try using a deep blue as the main color, and then one or two bright colors as accents (request)?” After listening, the boss paused, then surprisingly said: “Hmm… you have a point, why don’t you make a version for me to see?”
He no longer spent all his free time “taking classes.” Instead, he learned to use the “Feynman Technique” to explain what he had learned in the simplest plain language to friends who knew nothing about the field. He found that many things he thought he “understood” were full of holes when he tried to explain them. This process truly internalized the knowledge for him.
A miracle happened.
Xiao Tuan’s work efficiency was astonishingly high. He always completed tasks ahead of schedule, and the quality of his proposals got better and better. His boss began to praise him by name in meetings. He had more time to exercise, socialize, watch movies, and even picked up the guitar he loved in college again. There were more smiles on his face, no longer the tight, forced smiles to appease others.
He felt like a martial arts master who had unblocked his meridians; difficulties that once seemed insurmountable now seemed to have solutions.
This is the treasure of the third floor—infinite possibilities.
It tells us that we are natural learners, and our brains possess astonishing plasticity. 90% of the dilemmas we encounter have actually been faced by those before us, who have summarized countless effective “strategies” and “tools.” We don’t have to start from scratch and reinvent the wheel every time.
Learning to ask for help, learning to use tools, and learning to stand on the shoulders of giants is a form of wisdom, not weakness. It allows us to escape low-level repetition and use our precious energy where true creativity is needed.
But, dear explorer, have you noticed that this magical toolbox also hides a sweet trap?
Xiao Tuan soon encountered new confusion. He became a “methodology master”; his collection was filled with all sorts of practical articles and course links. When he chatted with friends, he couldn’t go three sentences without mentioning various models and theories.
If a friend was heartbroken, he’d say: “Don’t be sad, you can try using the ‘ABC Model of Emotion’ to analyze your irrational beliefs.” If a friend encountered a bottleneck at work, he’d say: “I suggest you use ‘SWOT analysis’ to review and find your strengths, weaknesses, opportunities, and threats.”
He became increasingly “correct” and “efficient,” but deep down, that small void didn’t seem to be filled. He occasionally asked himself in the dead of night: “I’ve learned so many dragon-slaying techniques, but… where is my dragon? Why am I slaying dragons?”
He was like a chef who collected countless valuable cooking utensils but didn’t know what kind of meal he wanted to cook for whom.
This is the trap of the third floor—the “Dragon Slayer Collector.”
We become obsessed with collecting and learning various “techniques” but forget to think about the “purpose.” We are busy finding “how to do” but forget to ask “why do.”
Capability is the vehicle that helps us reach our destination. But if there’s no destination in mind, even the fastest sports car will just idle in place.
So, when we’ve mastered enough tools, it’s time to find a map, a compass. We need to go somewhere higher, listen to our inner voice, and find the direction we truly want to go.
Come, let’s put the toolbox down for a moment and continue upward.
Chapter 4: Fourth Floor Bridge · The Captain’s Compass (Beliefs/Values Level)
“Ding—”
This time, when the elevator doors opened, there was no noise, no heat, no scent of books.
We seemed to have entered the bridge of a ship sailing at midnight. The room was circular, without windows, surrounded by deep sea-blue walls with twinkling starlight, like the ocean at night. In the center, a soft beam of light shone down from the ceiling, illuminating a heavy, antique bronze ship’s wheel and a faintly glowing brass compass beside it.
There was hardly anyone here, making it exceptionally quiet. But if you listened closely, you could hear some faint yet firm voices, like heartbeats emanating from deep within the walls, or like the distant chime of a lighthouse.
“What truly matters?” “What do I really believe in?” “Why am I doing this, really?”
These voices aren’t heard with the ears; they’re heard with the heart.
This is the command center of the entire building—the Fourth Floor Bridge. It determines where our ship of life will sail.
The residents here no longer concern themselves with “how to do” but rather question “why do.” They are the captains of their own lives.
Remember our “Dragon Slayer Collector,” Xiao Tuan? When he arrived on the fourth floor with his shining toolboxes, he felt truly lost for the first time.
He stood before the large compass, its needle spinning wildly like it was drunk, unable to stop. He didn’t know where to steer the ship. He possessed all the skills to slay a dragon, but found he had no dragon to slay, or rather, he didn’t know which sea his dragon was in.
For the first time, he began to ask himself questions he had never considered, or even deliberately avoided.
“Why do I work so hard? Is it for my boss’s approval? Or to make money to buy a bigger house? Or is it just because I’m afraid of being called lazy?” “Why do I feel that ‘stopping’ is a terrifying thing? Is it because deep down I believe that a person’s worth is equal to how busy they are?” “What is the ultimate purpose of the ‘efficiency’ and ‘correctness’ I pursue? Is it to make life easier, or just to win an imaginary competition with others?”
These questions were like small, sharp scalpels, precisely cutting through the hard shell he had built with “efficiency” and “methods.” Behind the shell, he saw a soft, fragile self he had never seen before.
He discovered that deep within him, there were some “life creeds” he didn’t even know he had. They were like the underlying code of a computer, silently controlling all his decisions without his awareness.
For example, he had a deeply ingrained belief: “I must be perfect to be loved.”
This belief might have come from an experience in childhood where he scored 98 but was scolded by his parents; or perhaps from a teacher’s comment like “You’re smart, but a bit careless.” It lingered like a ghost for many years.
It was this belief that made him work desperately, fear making mistakes, not dare to ask for help, and shoulder all the pressure himself. It was this belief that made him cautious in relationships, afraid to show his vulnerable side, always wanting to play the role of the omnipotent one. It was this belief that made him spin like a top, because he believed that once he stopped, he would no longer be “perfect,” and thus not worthy of love.
You see, this is the trap of the fourth floor—the “invisible chains.”
These beliefs, values, and rules hidden in our subconscious are like invisible chains. They may come from our childhood experiences, from parental teachings, from societal expectations. They protect us in many ways, but they can also become shackles that limit our progress as we grow older.
We don’t even feel their presence, only that the path of life becomes heavier and more tiring, but we don’t know why.
But at the same time, this floor also holds the most powerful treasure in the entire building—inner drive, what we often call “original intention.”
When Xiao Tuan finally gathered the courage to confront these chains and tried to remove them, he suddenly felt lighter. He gently said to the “must be perfect” belief: “Thank you for protecting me all these years, but now, I’ve grown up, and I can protect myself.”
He began to establish new beliefs for himself. He told himself: “My worth has nothing to do with whether I’m perfect. I am inherently worthy of love.” “Done is better than perfect. Shoot first, then aim.” “Creating designs that move people makes me happier than getting praise from my boss.”
As he carved these new beliefs, word by word, onto the compass with a small knife, a miracle happened. The wildly spinning needle slowly, slowly stabilized, pointing to a clear direction, on which was written: “Create and Share.”
At that moment, Xiao Tuan suddenly understood.
All the tools and methods he had learned on the third floor finally found their purpose. They were no longer dragon-slaying swords to show off, but rather brushes, chisels, and paints for him to create and share.
His work was no longer a “task he had to complete,” but a joyful game of creation. He began to enjoy every process of design, enjoying the pleasure of turning an idea into reality.
When our actions (second floor) and our capabilities (third floor) “align” with our deepest beliefs (fourth floor), an incredibly powerful, continuous inner strength is awakened.
We no longer need to rely on willpower to “persevere,” because everything we do comes from a heartfelt “willingness.” We no longer feel tired, because we are not consuming energy, but creating it.
This feeling is called “flow,” also known as “happiness.”
However, dear explorer, the story doesn’t end here. When the compass has a direction, the captain still needs to answer an ultimate question.
“Who am I?”
“Who am I, as the captain of this ship?”
To answer this question, we need to go to a more mysterious place.
Come, with curiosity about ourselves, let’s continue upward to the fifth-floor gallery.
Chapter 5: Fifth Floor Gallery · Mirror, Mirror, Tell Me (Identity Level)
“Ding—”
The elevator doors opened, and we entered a completely different place.
There were no machines here, no books, no compasses. This was a long, quiet gallery, with soft, deep red carpets that absorbed all sound. On the walls hung mirror after mirror, their frames varied: some were ornate golden carvings, some minimalist modern wood, and some had no frames at all, like clear pools of water embedded in the wall.
Strangely, no matter which mirror you stood before, it didn’t reflect your current appearance.
You walk up to an antique wooden-framed mirror, and in it, you might see yourself in overalls, planting tomatoes in a field, with satisfied sweat on your face. You turn and look at another mirror inlaid with seashells, and the you in the mirror might have become an explorer with a huge backpack, standing on a snow-capped mountain, with resolute eyes. Change to another one, and the you in the mirror might be wearing a white lab coat, meticulously mixing something in a laboratory, with a serious and focused expression.
This is the fifth floor’s “Magic Mirror Gallery.” It answers only one question, and the most important one: “Who am I?”
The residents here are those who have found their life’s direction (fourth floor) and have begun to contemplate their “existence” itself. They no longer ask “why do,” but begin to define “I am, therefore I do.”
Our friend Xiao Tuan, who had found his “create and share” direction, also came here.
He stood at the entrance of the gallery, somewhat at a loss. He habitually walked towards the most ordinary-looking mirror, which hung in the most inconspicuous corner, its frame gray, like an office partition.
In the mirror, a familiar image appeared: a “tired worker.” The him in the mirror was hunched over, eyes dull, clutching a coffee cup as if it were a lifeline.
Xiao Tuan looked at himself in the mirror, his heart sinking. He thought: “Yes, that’s me. I’m just a worker who commutes, revises proposals, and deals with the boss every day.” As this thought appeared, he felt his energy instantly drained again, and the light that had finally brightened on the fourth-floor compass dimmed.
He sat dejectedly on the carpet, not daring to look at any other mirror.
Just then, a voice whispered in his ear: “My dear, why do you only look at that one mirror?”
Xiao Tuan looked up and saw an elderly woman with white hair standing beside him, looking at him gently.
“Each of these mirrors is a possibility,” the old woman said with a smile. “Why don’t you try standing in front of other mirrors?”
Xiao Tuan hesitated, but finally gathered his courage and stood up. He carefully walked around the “worker” mirror and stood before another mirror adorned with musical notes and colors.
He took a deep breath and looked into the mirror.
In the mirror, a new him appeared. This him wasn’t sitting in a cubicle, but at a large wooden table, covered with paints, brushes, and all sorts of curious materials. He was intently coloring a clay figurine with a brush, a smile playing on his lips that he hadn’t even noticed himself. His eyes were no longer tired, but sparkled with curiosity and joy, like a child discovering a new toy.
Below the mirror, there was a small label that read: “A Creative Life Artist.”
Xiao Tuan was stunned. He looked at himself in the mirror, his heart pounding. A strange feeling surged within him. He suddenly realized, “Yes, isn’t this also me? I love to create, I enjoy the process of turning an idea into reality, I can also be a ‘life artist’!”
This thought, like a seed, fell into his heart.
From that day on, Xiao Tuan’s entire state changed.
He was still a designer, but he no longer saw himself as just a “worker.” When he began to work as a “life artist,” his approach to things was completely different.
He would visit art museums on weekends to seek inspiration, instead of staying home playing games. He would actively learn new software and skills to better present his creativity. He even started sharing some of his design insights and small creative ideas from his life on his social media, attracting a small group of loyal followers.
His work was no longer a “task he had to complete,” but a natural expression of his identity as a “life artist.”
You see, this is the treasure of the fifth floor—the magic of self-reinvention.
“Who am I” has never been a true/false question, but a multiple-choice one. Our past experiences, professions, and roles attach various labels to us, such as “introverted person,” “failure,” “good student”…
And the trap of the fifth floor is “labeling oneself.” We often cling to one of these labels, especially the negative ones, and then tell ourselves: “See, this is who I am, I can’t change.” This label, like the Golden Headband on the Monkey King, firmly traps us in place, limiting all our possibilities.
But the magic mirrors on the fifth floor tell us that we are far broader and richer than any single label.
Identity is not a result, but a choice. It is a perspective, a way we see ourselves. When we choose to see ourselves with a new, more positive, and more powerful identity, we open a whole new script for our lives.
This new identity will act like a powerful magnetic field, automatically attracting matching beliefs (fourth floor), capabilities (third floor), and behaviors (second floor).
A “practitioner of healthy living” will naturally choose healthy food and stick to exercise. A “lifelong learner” will naturally view reading and learning as something as natural as breathing.
But, dear explorer, do you think this is the end?
When Xiao Tuan, as a “life artist,” created more and more beautiful things and shared them, he began to feel something grander. He discovered that his happiness could light up the happiness of others. His creations could become a glimmer of light in this world.
He began to ponder a more ultimate question: “What is my relationship, as a ‘life artist,’ with this world? What is the meaning of my existence?”
To answer this question, we need to go to the highest point of this building.
Come, let’s push open the door to the top-floor garden together.
Chapter 6: Top Floor Garden · Telescope Under the Stars (Spiritual/Systemic Level)
“Ding—”
This time, the elevator doors didn’t open; instead, the ceiling slowly rose. We arrived at an open-air secret garden.
Underfoot was soft grass, with the scent of earth. The garden had no magnificent exotic flowers, only some humble, nameless wildflowers swaying gently in the evening breeze. In the center of the garden stood a large, ancient astronomical telescope, its barrel pointing directly at the deep night sky.
Standing here, you can overlook the familiar city below, ablaze with lights, like a flowing river of light. You can also clearly hear the hammering from the workshop downstairs, the rustling of pages from the study, and even faint complaints from the game room on the first floor.
But when you look up, you’ll see a never-before-seen, incredibly brilliant galaxy. Every star is so bright, so distant; together, they form a grand and peaceful tableau.
This is the sixth floor’s “Starry Sky Garden.” It answers a question that transcends our individual selves. It asks: “What is my relationship with everything beyond me?”
The residents here are those who have begun to contemplate their “mission.” They no longer focus solely on personal growth but begin to consider how to integrate their light into the broader sea of stars.
Our newly minted “life artist,” Xiao Tuan, finally arrived here too.
He carried his new identity found in the fifth-floor gallery, and his passion for creation, as he began to stroll through this garden. At first, he was a bit puzzled. There were no tools here, no mirrors, no compass, only a silent starry sky. What could he do?
He tried to aim the huge telescope at the brightest star in the night sky.
As his eye pressed against the eyepiece, he saw an incredible sight. He didn’t see an isolated star, but a vast galaxy composed of countless stars, mutually attracting and rotating together. He suddenly understood that the brightest star was so dazzling not only because it emitted light itself, but also because it was part of this magnificent galaxy, resonating with billions of other stars.
Then, he turned the telescope towards the brightly lit city below.
He saw a designer, just like him, excited about a creative idea late at night. He saw a mother patiently talking to her rebellious child, using the communication skills she had just learned. He saw a young person, having let go of complaints, entering a gym for the first time, sweating on a treadmill.
He saw countless people, just like him, struggling to climb their own mind buildings. He saw their joy, their struggles, their confusion, and their courage. He saw all these tiny, personal stories converge into the city’s vibrant pulse.
At that moment, Xiao Tuan’s eyes welled up.
He suddenly realized that his meaning as a “life artist” was not just about making himself happy. When he designed a poster with his heart, it might bring warmth to a passerby; when he shared an article about creation, it might ignite a spark in another young designer’s heart; when he lived a more expansive and joyful state through his actions, he himself became a mirror for those around him, allowing them to see another possibility.
He was a small but indispensable part of this vast system. His existence was intimately connected to this world, mutually influencing each other.
This is the treasure of the sixth floor—finding a sense of mission.
When we expand the boundaries of “I” and begin to think about “we,” a serene and powerful force, transcending personal joy and sorrow, descends upon us. We will no longer completely negate ourselves because of a single failure, nor will we become complacent because of a single success. Because we know that everything we do is merely adding a small, unique light to this brilliant galaxy.
This sense of mission will become the most solid foundation of our lives, allowing us to maintain inner peace and conviction in the face of any storm.
But, dear explorer, you must have guessed that this highest, most beautiful floor also hides the trap easiest to get lost in.
That is the “armchair philosopher’s” cloud.
Some people come here, awestruck by the vastness of the starry sky, and begin to lie in the garden all day, contemplating the mysteries of the universe, discussing the future of humanity. They talk about love and peace, compassion and wisdom, their words filled with lofty philosophy.
But they forget to water the wildflowers at their feet, forget that their family downstairs still needs companionship, forget the work they initially promised to complete. They fall in love with the feeling of “talking about mission” but forget that any grand mission must be put into the smallest, most concrete actions.
They float in the clouds, disconnected from their roots. This is actually another form of escape, fundamentally no different from complaining about the environment on the first floor.
So, a truly mature explorer will not stay on the sixth floor forever.
They will come here often to calibrate their direction and draw strength from the starry sky. Then, they will carry this strength, take the elevator, and return to any floor they need to be on.
They will return to the workshop on the second floor, infusing meaning into their mundane actions with the sense of mission brought from the sixth floor. They will return to the game room on the first floor, using the broad perspective gained from the sixth floor to understand and accept those who are still complaining.
They have finally gained the ability to freely move between the floors of this building.
So, does our adventure end here?
No, my dear.
After we’ve explored all the floors, learned how to reconcile with every imperfect part of ourselves, and learned how to use the elevator freely, we still need to do one last thing.
That is, to go to the first floor, find the main door we never noticed at first, and then, reach out and gently, push it open.
Outside the door, there is warm sunshine, the smell of green grass, the laughter of children, the rustling of wind through leaves.
Outside the door is real life.
This mind building is our inner navigation system, a fantastic self-diagnosis tool. But it is not the whole world. We explore it to live better, not to live inside it forever.
Sometimes, the best choice is to forget all theories, all models, all levels.
It’s just to truly feel the warmth of the sun, to hug someone you love, to cheer for a delicious meal, to run freely in the rain once.
Because inner exploration is ultimately to enable us to step into the outer world more bravely, more authentically, and more lovingly.
This adventure has no end.
And the adventure itself is the most beautiful scenery.
Thank you, dear explorer, for accompanying me on this journey. Now, let’s push open the door together and step into the sunlight.