"A man who lives sincerely must live somewhere far away." —Thoreau
Right now my public account has exactly twelve followers, two of whom are my own accounts. Most articles get just a handful of reads. No one is reading this. So who am I writing for?
“一个人若生活得诚恳，他一定是生活在一个遥远的地方。——梭罗”
目前，我的公众号就只有十二个关注，其中两个还是自己。 文章通常只有几个阅读量。没有人看，这是写给谁呢？
I used to hold two delusions. The first: that after I die, someone might still read these pieces—say, my nephew. I've found things in the world that seem beautiful to me, and I hoped he would see them too. If these frozen thoughts could give him some insight or strength in his lifetime, I'd be content.
我心里曾有两个念头。其中一个希望所写内容在死后仍有人看，比如我外甥。我发现了一些自认为是世间精美的事物，我希望他能看到。在我死后、他还活着的日子里，这些凝固下来的意识，若能给他带来启发或者力量，那我就很满意。
The other delusion was that someone might one day collect my diaries and notes. Again, the imaginary curator was my nephew.
另一个念头是，我有一些日记和随笔，还幻想过死后有人会去整理。这幻想里仍有一个对象，哈，还是我的外甥。
But only famous people, or those with truly valuable work, get their writings sorted and published after death.
不过通常来说，名人，或者作品有价值，才有人愿意整理他的内容。
I've since realized my nephew isn't me. I can't predict what he'll like in life. And I'm nobody. I have no systematic body of thought worth preserving. So both delusions fell apart.
我已经发觉，外甥不是我，他的人生喜欢什么，我难以预料。况且我什么也不是，也没有自成一体系的思想，不值得别人整理。因此这两个念头都被我打破了。
The thought can be pushed even further. Suppose nothing I write is ever read, before or after my death. That returns to the old question:
其实，还可以打破更加彻底一些。如果我所写的内容生前死后压根没有人看——这仍是那个古老的问题：
If all this expression has no external meaning, who is it for? What attitude, what purpose should drive the writing?
这一切表达都没有外部意义，那么应该是写给谁，以什么心态和目的去书写？
On a long enough timeline it must be so. Stretch time far enough—thousands, millions, trillions of years—and even the greatest things grind to dust and vanish into the infinite. That's not speculation; it's just obvious.
实际也必然如此。时间尺度拉得足够长，多么伟大都会磨成尘埃，隐匿于无限里。比如再过一千年、一百万年、一万亿年。这想象再合理不过了。
I do want to spread ideas I think are valuable, but that's not the source. When I take life seriously, I'm always facing myself. I'm noticing, exploring, exchanging thoughts with myself, and I always come away with something.
我的确想传播有价值的理念，而这，并不是源头。当严肃对待生活时，我面对的总是自己。我总在觉察、总在探索、总去交流，也总有收获。
To help myself, I have to get it out and shape it into words. That's where writing really begins—from living.
为此，我不得不帮助自己表达出来，将其梳理成文字。这才是书写的源头，源自生活。
A fruit tree ripens and flowers and bears fruit. A full cup overflows. It's the most natural thing in the world. Where the fruit falls or the water flows isn't up to me, and I don't need to worry much about it.
果树成熟了，就会开花和结果。水满了，就会溢出来。这是再自然不过的规律。至于果子掉到哪里，水流向何处，不是我所能控制，也不用过于关心。
Thoreau says to write simply and sincerely about your life, as if sending a letter from far away to family. That's the best attitude toward writing.
梭罗说：简单而诚恳地写出自己的生活，写得好像是从远方寄给亲人。这是很好的书写态度。
In the vast backdrop of infinite space and time, if human writing must have a recipient, then it's yourself. Write with sincerity, trying to tell yourself clearly: this is the life I lived, and this is how I lived it.
倘若在无限时空的宏大背景下，赋予人之书写以某个对象，我想就是写给自己。以诚恳的心态试图清楚地告诉自己：我曾在什么生活里，我在如何生活。
The other half of the question—why write at all?
因而那个问题的另一半——以什么目的去书写。
Every other answer feels impure, incomplete, unrealistic.
其他回答均不够干净，不够彻底，不够实际。
I think there is only one clean, thorough, and true answer:
我想只有这个答案，唯一的好答案：
To satisfy yourself.
为了令自己满意。