^{Artwork by Raimonda}

I suppose you’ve seen obituaries shared on WeChat. People post them thoughtlessly, almost as if it’s routine. It feels strange, doesn’t it, that a life concludes in such a trivial manner? I used to find it unsettling, even irritating. Once, I saw a non-acquaintance, some member of a distant group chat buried deep in my inbox, commenting on the death of Padynewski, the great Polish writer. “We should brace ourselves for the sudden surge of Polish literary experts on our feeds,” he quipped, lamenting the man’s demise. A bit caustic, I thought, but experience has since changed my perspective.

I’ve always preferred to keep quiet when someone more than one or two connections removed from me passes away. I certainly didn’t want anyone insinuating I should behave otherwise. But this way of thinking hasn’t helped my current predicament—it may even have exacerbated it.

Two days ago, on a lazy weekend afternoon, I was scrolling through my feed when I stumbled upon an unexpected flurry of obituary notices and prayer stickers—for someone I unfortunately did know. That someone was none other than me!

“Well,” I muttered, because one always talks to themselves on social media, “isn’t this just typical.” I replied to the second or third of my mourning friends: “I’m not dead yet.” Panicking, I noticed nearly a dozen posts declaring my demise and a steady stream of stickers—candles, prayers, even a thumbs-up or two. It was absurd.

Frantic, I resorted to my habitual response to confusion: a string of “?” or even “? ? ?” filled my replies, but it was futile.

Here’s the thing: I’m not famous. I run operations for a parts company in Yangpu District, Shanghai. Most of my time is spent figuring out how components fit together. Nothing in my life merits this level of public emotion. A sensible person would have been puzzled, as I was. I genuinely thought I was dreaming.

I searched my chat logs and found an incoming message from a close colleague. That the phone still buzzed in my hand should have confirmed my living status. But there it was: my obituary, sent by my colleague alongside a cluster of prayer stickers.

“They’ve got the wrong man,” I told him, “This has to be some sort of prank.” “Yes, such a shame,” he replied, completely unfazed. “Safe passage to Mr An!”

Frustrated and bewildered, I abandoned the stack of materials on my kitchen counter. Like a ghost, I drifted into the living room.

My wife was seated on the sofa, absorbed in some sort of journal. I told her I was dead—at least according to my phone. Deceased, mourned, showered with condolences and virtual flowers.

“I don’t know what to make of it,” I confessed. She rose and embraced me with a warmth that lingered, but all she said was, “I know, I know.”

Her words offered no solution, but I felt that she and our child would genuinely miss me. The thought was overwhelming.

Still reeling, I excused myself and stepped outside—a decision that felt reckless on any other weekend but made sense now. I needed fresh air.

I caught her eyes at the door. They were as compelling as ever. I’ve always been drawn to those eyes. I shut the door reluctantly and took the escalator down. It was around half-past three in the afternoon.

I wandered down the main street in our part of Shanghai—every neighbourhood has one—and entered a noodle shop where we used to grab dinner when too tired to cook.

“A large milk tea for a dead man,” I joked, “three parts sugar.”

Surprisingly, the proprietor wasn’t fazed. He even refused to take my money, waving his hands in that distinct Chinese gesture of polite insistence.

As I sipped my tea, I realised something: despite being “dead,” I was calm, almost bored. My phone, now a foreign object, felt like someone else’s burden. For once, I had nothing pressing to worry about.

A courier rested nearby, sipping a fizzy drink. At another table, a young couple scrolled through their phones in companionable silence.

Suddenly, the young man exclaimed, “Wah! Padynewski died!”

“Old news,” his partner retorted. “How does it concern you?”

I watched the sunlight spill across the white floor tiles. It felt good, grounding in its simplicity. Something in the scene tugged at memories of years gone by. As a younger man, without a degree in componentology, I might have meandered through the city for hours—carefree, careless, unmoored by time. Shanghai can do that to you. Whole reams of time, thicker than any stack of documents, would pass by in complete inactivity.

Looking back from the perspective of my busier years, I realise how terrifying I once found the passage of a month. Years used to slip by unnoticed, without me so much as raising an eyebrow. Now months flit past like fleeting guests—arriving, vanishing before I can grasp their presence.

They felt like a timer—perhaps you’ll relate—counting down to five hundred or so for someone my age. The passing days created the cruel illusion of permanence, stacking mercilessly into double and triple digits. I felt like a driver, watching the fuel gauge tick steadily towards empty, without a single gas station in sight—a man balancing precariously on the edge of chaos. But even this hardly seemed to matter now.

Eventually, I stepped outside again, slipping my phone into my hand like an old habit. The stream of obituary notices had dried up after about a dozen posts. To be honest, I’d hoped for more attention than that. Still, I fended off a few lingering messages from Joe or Jane Bloggs with a terse “I’m fine” or “Everything is normal.” In response, more prayer stickers arrived. Someone even repaid a debt of 300 RMB I’d long forgotten.

I “liked” a few posts but stopped short of sharing the news on my friend circle. As they say, the moment had passed.

Back on the road, I drifted into my thoughts—or perhaps it was more accurate to say a mood overtook me. It was a feeling reminiscent of my idle years: that aimless, unmarked meditation on the world around me, everything softened with a quiet melancholy. Occasionally, flashes of joy, shock, disgust, or even alarm might pierce the stillness. But mostly, I coasted on the unseen tectonic activity of life—the movements not just of people, but of everything that interconnects, both on this earth and beyond.

Main Street gradually gives way to what I call Overpass Avenue, about a kilometre south of Noodle Central. I don’t often wander that way, but when I do, it’s usually with purpose. It feels like I’m breaking some unspoken routine whenever I go there. Sometimes, though, I walk just to bask in its eerie, liminal quality. The brown, track-and-field-like walkways of the overpass have a peculiar springiness underfoot, a strange bounce that demands attention.

Below, cars pumped fumes into the air, hooting and jostling through the relentless traffic. I found myself completely detached, forgetting the surreal drama that had engulfed me earlier.

You never know the sorts of people you’ll encounter in these places. Before I reached the staircase down, I noticed an old man shuffling ahead of me. He was stooped beneath the weight of his groceries—several bags in each hand. In his right hand swung a single, pendulous white bag containing a large watermelon. The image stuck with me—pathetic, ridiculous, a burdensome thing for a man of his age to carry alone.

It wasn’t the man himself, but the awkward shape of the watermelon that finally spurred me to action.

“Let me help you with that,” I said. We descended the stairs together.

At the bus station, I set his groceries down and prepared to leave. For a moment, I thought I saw myself in his weary eyes—it’s always that way, isn’t it? I left the encounter burdened with sentimental thoughts, the kind that verge on pompous but still feel true: the idea that a single act of kindness carries significance far beyond what the performer can comprehend.

But the point is not to dwell on such things—ignorance of the good one does is often its greatest virtue.

There I was, dead and still pondering the tectonic undercurrents of life. Leaning against a wide column of the overpass, I steadied myself.

I kept half an eye on the old man. He lingered at the station for a moment. Then I glanced away, distracted, and when I looked back, both he and his bags had vanished—like a ghost.

The day wasn’t over, though I wished it was. Shanghai always provides an excuse for a drink, and I intended to take full advantage. A taxi whisked me into town. A few whiskey sodas later, all I could manage was exasperation. Waving the digital obituary at my friends, I demanded their reactions. They laughed, clapped me on the shoulder, or ordered another round.

I texted my wife to tell her they should eat without me.

Soon night fell—an oppressive darkness that blurred the lines between the world outside and the turmoil within. I wasn’t sure if the universe itself was shifting, or if it was simply the alcohol clouding my senses. Or maybe it was the relentless pressure of it all—a wife and child at home, work looming the next day.

Dead or not, I pinged a taxi. The ride home was quieter, my thoughts still.

My child was asleep, peaceful and warm. I showered, washing away the grime of the day, and crawled into bed. The rhythmic tapping of my wife typing beside me lulled me into sleep.

That was last night. This morning, I woke up refreshed, though not without a lingering sense of dread that seems to plague so many people I know. The thing is (there I go again with “the thing”), as the day unfolded, I found myself feeling increasingly relaxed—a relief that seemed somehow unearned. That feeling has been my constant companion lately.

I took my boy to school, watching as he ran through the gates after a quick hug. Some parents clasped my hand in greeting, but others on the periphery seemed unaware of “the news.” This irritated me—surely something as significant as my supposed death should travel faster. Some people just don’t look beyond their own little worlds!

Distracting myself, I scrolled to the photo of the milk tea from the day before and decided to post it with the caption: “Enjoying what comes after a final meal.” I’ve always had a weakness for forced humour.

I walked away, letting their voices and images fade into the background.

At work, my office had recently become ensnared in a labyrinth of government applications. When I arrived, my supervisor—sympathetic, I think—assigned me to the task. We both pretended she didn’t know about my unusual situation—as is often the way with sensitive matters. I was oddly grateful for the normality of it all, and for the chance to focus on something productive.

Normality nearly returned. I scrolled absently through my feed, avoiding my obituary, which for a while I succeeded in ignoring. Death, after all, loses its sting in front of a towering stack of paperwork.

But around lunchtime, the weight of it all began to settle in. I wasn’t hungry. It felt as though the floor had dropped out beneath me. My phone, muted but omnipresent, compelled me to open it. I texted my wife:

“When will it happen?”

“What?”

She was right to ask.

“I suppose, when will I go?”

“When you’re ready to go, I guess.”

My superior returned soon after, her early lunch leaving the hallways eerily empty. The corridors and doors seemed to darken around her presence. Out of habit, I mustered the courage to excuse myself. Before anyone could ask whether forms would fill themselves, I arranged for others to handle the easy parts virtually. We’d leave the more challenging tasks for tomorrow.

“Of course,” she said, with an exclamation of genuine surprise. “I’m shocked you even came in today.”

That afternoon, unplanned but welcome, my wife and I both made it home early. We relished the rare chance to enjoy each other’s company. Together, we picked up our boy from school, cooked a meal, and laughed along to a vintage film. The movie played until it was dark. At one point, we all cried—then laughed again.

The simple joy of it kept everything else at bay. I felt a soft breeze on my bare feet.

The little tiger, as we call him, went off to bed. Soon after, my wife shuffled off too, leaving me with my thoughts.

Now, here I am. On countless occasions, I’ve been told not to stay up beyond a certain hour—advice I’ve always failed to follow. I promised myself I’d go to bed early on my last day, whenever that might be.

But I haven’t been willing to go just yet.

For a while, I sat back and wondered, as I’ve often done. If I don’t dwell on it too much, will everything simply continue as it always has? Nothing could possibly happen to me if I just stayed still, could it? The hustle and bustle would persist, indifferent to me—regardless of what my colleagues thought or what the oblivious parents at school might say.

But my resolve to care about them—or anything else in that world—has been fading. A person can only follow one of two paths, and I’ve grown weary of the social one. All I ever truly needed was with me—or just in the next room, breathing in steady, peaceful sleep.

If one truly contemplates the nature of other people—the idea that others possess consciousness, seeing the world as vividly and uniquely as you do—then it follows that we exist as isolated individuals, tenuously linked to a shared humanity or intelligence. This intelligence must arise from the universe itself, bound by the energy that draws things together in the first place.

Wherever this web of connections leads, we are part of it. With every action, we affirm it. Evil, then, stems from severing this connection—from imagining the world as fractured or nonexistent. That singular act of separation, so seemingly blank and senseless, has haunted humanity throughout history.

If one can navigate life without becoming lost in isolation, then the spirit remains intact. The body may long for separation, yet eventually, it relinquishes its grip. The soul departs, flowing through the endless currents of change, before finding its way to another form—whether here or elsewhere.

There seems to be nothing else worth contemplating but this: how life compels us to act and be.

I cancelled a post I was crafting about the milk tea photo. I withdrew from the apps entirely. A nervous energy gripped me, the sense of something imminent. But I had to be honest—with myself, and with you, dear reader.

I’ve muted everything. Only myself, this page, and the imagined presence of you remain. For decades, the loudest music has crashed through my life, and now, inexplicably, it has fallen silent. The ringing in my ears has stopped, yet they seem to await its return.

My heart feels ready to tie itself back into its usual knots. Yet, somewhere within me, I sense the option to opt back into life remains.

Know this, dear reader: I may have tricked you. I am writing this for myself, for others—for no one.

It was all my contrivance, or perhaps one of those meddling parents on WeChat. Someone posted about my death, and I believed it. Now, I’m fulfilling their little ruse, completing their story.

But maybe I invented the whole thing. Every web of detail sprang from my mind and materialised here in this writing. It’s mine.

Let me set the record straight. I wrote this in my lonely apartment. I carried my shopping up seven flights of stairs before sitting down at the desk, as I’ve done so many times before.

A bright moon hangs outside my window. I think I’ll return to the warm bed in the other room, to my wife and the embrace waiting there. I’ll walk gently past my son’s room.

I hear knocking. Someone is tapping at my front door.

How to cite: Allen, Edward. “A Social Post.” Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, 11 Dec. 2024, chajournal.blog/2024/12/11/social-post.

Edward Allen earned a PhD in archaeology from Fudan University in 2024 and is currently authoring a book on China and Eurasia in the prehistoric period. Alongside his academic pursuits, Edward has a deep passion for writing, which began during his pre-PhD years when he befriended several Chinese novelists. His creative work seeks to merge his interests in archaeology and storytelling, with his current major project being a trilogy centred on Fu Hao, the legendary female general and queen of the Shang Dynasty. [All contributions by Edward Allen.]

---