Thirty years old, a complete failure. I don't know how I suddenly reached thirty. My family was poor in my childhood, so I lacked ambition, wasting my time on play and neglecting my studies. Lacking aspirations, I squandered my life. Now, over thirty, I haven't acquired a single skill to support myself, spending my days forcing smiles and living a life of mere survival in the marketplace. Years of seeking work in various places, running around aimlessly, stumbling and falling, have yielded nothing. At thirty, the youthful spirit has been worn away. I have no knowledge, yet I aspire to a position of great refinement. Thirty years of life have been wasted, a fleeting dream, waking up empty-handed. I have failed my parents in raising me, failing to be a role model for my children. Approaching forty, my eyes are dull, my heart devoid of poetry and distant dreams. I retain a sliver of youthful spirit, drinking wine down my throat. Flowers may bloom again, but youth never returns.