Part II: The Fish in the Stream: The Net of Fate
Chen Tao graduated from Sichuan University, majoring in philosophy. In the eyes of many people, philosophy is a discipline that can see through the essence of the world. Chen Tao himself once believed that with four years of academic training and reflection on life and truth, even if he could not become rich or powerful, he would at least be able to secure a respectable and stable job and put what he had learned into practice.
But the cold water of reality came crashing down the moment he graduated.
Job opportunities for philosophy majors are already limited. Positions that truly match the field, teaching in universities or working in research institutes, are few and fiercely competitive. Meanwhile, most companies in the job market prefer practical skills that can directly create value. The “intellectual value” of philosophy seems particularly pale when confronted with the pressures of survival.
In order to make a living, to support himself, and to avoid asking his family for money, Chen Tao, who once held books in his hands studying life and truth, eventually set aside his ideals and threw himself into the food delivery industry.
Today he wears a delivery uniform and rides through the streets and alleys of the city every day, facing the wind and rain, earning a modest income by taking and completing orders. Once a top student from a prestigious university, he is now a food delivery rider navigating the smoke and bustle of everyday life. When he wipes the rain from his glasses while riding, he may sometimes think to himself: perhaps it would have been better if he had not studied so hard back then, at least now he would not have to wipe his glasses while trying to drive.
More poignant than Chen Tao’s story is that of Ding Yuanzhao. His résumé is one that most people can only admire from afar. He studied chemical engineering as an undergraduate at Tsinghua University, one of China’s most prestigious institutions and a dream destination for countless students. After graduation, he did not stop there. He went on to earn two master’s degrees, from Peking University and University of Oxford, as well as a PhD in biochemistry at Nanyang Technological University.
Ding Yuanzhao spent some time in Singapore working as a postdoctoral researcher. After his postdoctoral contract ended, he continued searching for a suitable academic or research position. It was then that he discovered how much harsher reality could be than he had imagined. Research positions in the field of biochemistry demand exceptionally high qualifications and are extremely scarce. Finding a position that matched his training and expectations proved almost impossible. Yet moving into industry was no easier, as there were few roles suited to his background. After repeated setbacks, the pressure of daily life mounted, and the scientific ideals he once held were gradually worn down by disappointment.
In the end, with no other options left, Ding Yuanzhao chose to become a food delivery rider, working around ten hours a day to support his family. A former Tsinghua undergraduate and internationally trained PhD had become a delivery courier in a foreign land. The contrast, in some ways, was even more striking than in Chen Tao’s story.
Their stories often remind me of something from my childhood—catching fish in the small stream near my village.
We would build a simple dam downstream using stones, place a fine net across the opening, and then move together from upstream, shouting and splashing as we drove the fish forward. Startled and panicking, the fish would flee desperately with the current.
Most of them, in their confusion, would rush straight into the net waiting below and become our “trophies.” Only a very small number of fish—perhaps naturally cautious, or perhaps simply brave enough not to follow the current—would instead swim upstream against the flow and escape the trap we had set.
Back then, we were the ones who set the trap, the ones in control. Watching the fish struggle in the net, we felt only excitement.
But as I grew older and saw more of the world, I suddenly realized something: in this vast society, each of us is actually a fish in the stream. And Chen Tao and Ding Yuanzhao are simply among the many that have been driven into the net by fate.
When they were young, they believed they had found a “bright road” that could change their destiny. Like countless ordinary children, they studied hard, chose their majors carefully, and did everything they could to follow the current of life, hoping to carve out a path of their own.
What they did not know was that behind this seemingly gentle current, an invisible net had already been cast. Society guided them with a set of seemingly reasonable narratives, leading them to believe that the knowledge they acquired in their chosen fields would allow them to build a secure life. Yet no one told them that some of these fields had already become so-called “sinkhole majors,” paths from which it is extremely difficult to break out.
They were not lazy, nor lacking in ambition. They simply made what seemed to be the most rational choices at the time, in an age when information was incomplete and their understanding of the world was still limited.
It is like the fish we drive into nets. They dart frantically through the water, believing that if they swim fast enough they can escape danger, never realizing that the net has already been laid downstream. Carried forward by the currents of their time and trapped by the structures of society, they eventually struggle in the mud of life, becoming fish caught in the nets of fate.
As for us, perhaps we simply had a little more luck.
At critical crossroads in life, we were not swept along by the current into that waiting net. Instead, we happened to step onto the advantages of our era, to receive support from our families, or to choose a path that turned out to be easier.
Like those rare fish that swim upstream and escape, we were fortunate enough to move calmly in safer waters.
We have no right to mock the fish caught in the net, nor to blame people like Chen Tao and Ding Yuanzhao for “choosing the wrong path.” Deep down we know the truth: it is not that we were wiser than they were.
We were simply lucky enough to escape a trap that had been carefully laid long before.
Part III: The Conscious Chicken: The Pain of Clarity
I once watched a video of an automated poultry slaughterhouse in the West. The chickens awaiting slaughter were hung upside down one by one and sent into a chamber filled with carbon dioxide, where they would lose consciousness. After that came the automated steps of cutting their throats, draining the blood, and scalding their feathers.
For most chickens, death came quietly in the carbon dioxide chamber. They lost consciousness there, and everything that followed had nothing to do with them anymore.
But there were always a few chickens with extraordinary vitality. They endured the suffocating gas without losing consciousness and entered the next stage still awake.
When the cutting blade came down, they instinctively lifted their heads and struggled to avoid it. Somehow, by sheer chance, they slipped past the second stage and survived again.
At that moment, I felt relieved for them.
But in the next instant, what I saw pierced my heart.
The third stage was a tank of boiling hot water. This time, they could not escape.
Those conscious chickens struggled desperately in the scalding water, letting out heart-rending cries as they were boiled alive. Compared with the chickens that had died in the first stage, their suffering was a hundred times greater.
Watching that chicken struggling in the boiling water, I suddenly saw a reflection of ourselves, those who have seen through the truths of the human world, yet are powerless to change them. Are we not like that conscious chicken?
We see clearly that all beings suffer, that this world itself is a vast net. Most people are driven by fate, controlled by their genes, and carried along by circumstance, living in confusion and bearing suffering without awareness. In a strange way, their ignorance spares them much torment.
We see the selfishness of genes, they care nothing about our happiness or pain, only about replication and survival.
We see the traps of society, countless invisible structures that lure people step by step toward their own downfall.
We see the destiny of the underclass. We see the cycle of the squab. We see the net in the stream. We see all the helplessness of lives that cannot choose their own course.
But what does it change, seeing all this?
We are powerless.
We cannot change the control of our genes.
We cannot break the structures of society.
We cannot save those trapped in suffering.
We cannot even fully change our own fate.
Like that conscious chicken: it escaped the suffocation of the carbon dioxide chamber and avoided the blade of the knife, yet it could not escape the boiling water.
In the same way, we may have avoided some of life’s traps and, by luck, gained a stable life. Yet we cannot escape the suffering of the human world, nor the pain that comes with awareness.
And even so, we are still willing to remain awake.
Even if clarity brings endless pain.
Even if, in the end, the final outcome cannot be escaped.
About the Author
Eddy Lee traces his lineage to Yashan, site of the last battle of the Southern Song dynasty in 1279. A member of the Third Front generation—families relocated during China’s industrial campaign of the 1960s and 70s, he now lives in Guangzhou, China.
© Eddy Lee 2026 Copyright
All Dimensions PressTM
Personal reading, sharing, and forwarding are warmly encouraged. Please keep the author's name and All Dimensions PressTM visible. Unauthorized commercial use is prohibited.
If you have any thoughts or reflections on this article, please feel free to send us an email. Every message will be read carefully, and selected responses may be shared in the future.
Email: laralee.author@gmail.com
Website: https://www.alldimensionspress.com
Article Information
Category: Non Fiction / Essay
Tags: Society Observation / Reflection / Guangzhou
