The Cacophonous Exchange

During that period, the world caught a fever, a fever for buying and selling. Exactly when it started, nobody could say, just like nobody can pinpoint how love or the flu suddenly arrives. Anyway, overnight, it seemed everyone had become a shrewd merchant, or at least a fervent customer. The air was no longer filled with factory fumes or the scent of lilacs in the park, but a strange odor blending the stench of money, new plastic packaging, and adrenaline. Multiple countries globally were buying, buying, buying, and selling, selling, selling in China. It sounded like an economic news headline, but in reality, it felt more like a collective sleepwalk sweeping over everything.

I, Wang Er, a fellow who considered himself still retaining a shred of conscious awareness, was muddling through life at a unit called the 'Office for the Promotion of Universal Circulation'. The name sounded impressive, but really, it was just about stamping things. Before, we stamped imported and exported salted fish, stamped thermoses bound for Siberia. Not anymore. Now, we stamp everything, as long as it can be priced. Just yesterday, I stamped an export permit for a batch of 'Bulk-Purchased Melancholy (70% new, slight existentialist tint)'. The buyer was supposedly an art collective from some Nordic country; they felt their local melancholy was too pure, lacking a certain Eastern flavor.

Old Liu from the office had his unique take on this phenomenon. He'd be dangling a cigarette, its ash teetering precariously, looking like a philosopher on the verge of bankruptcy. "Little Wang," he said, "this isn't simple buying and selling. It's the exchange of existence itself. Look, we used to pursue meaning; now we pursue price directly. Price is great – clearly marked, fair to young and old. That meaning stuff? Vague and confusing, who understands it?" I thought Old Liu had a point, but it also sounded like bullshit. When something is priced, is its meaning fixed? Or has meaning itself become a negotiable commodity?

The scenes on the street were even more bizarre and chaotic. The square-dancing aunties no longer danced to 'Most Dazzling Ethnic Wind'; they formed groups to study K-line charts, discussing which square dance copyright could fetch a good price. Couples in the park no longer swore oaths to the moon; they exchanged 'idle time' and 'emotional quotas,' signing legally binding 'love futures contracts'. I personally saw a blond, blue-eyed guy, speaking broken Chinese, trying to buy an old man's creaky birdcage, along with the 'singing rights' to the thrush inside, which looked like it was nearing nirvana. The old man sucked his teeth and said slowly, "Young man, this bird's song is priceless. But if you genuinely want it, you can lease it. Billed by the second, global payments accepted."

I felt like a donkey that had mistakenly wandered onto a highway. The traffic roared past, every vehicle laden with goods and desires, speeding towards an unseen destination. And me? I just wanted to find a quiet patch of grass, chew on some blades, and contemplate the meaning of a donkey's life. But in this era, even 'quiet' had become a luxury commodity. Rumor had it there was a 'Serenity Experience Pavilion' on the outskirts of town. The entrance fee was shockingly high, offering an absolutely silent environment with various duration packages. Some called it a scam; others flocked to it, claiming they could retrieve their lost souls there.

One day, unable to bear the office chatter about price quotes for 'second-hand dreams' and 'discounted anxiety,' I slipped out early. I wandered aimlessly down the street and saw a small stall set up in a corner. The vendor was a thin young man with glasses, looking like an unsuccessful poet. His stall had no physical goods, only a sign that read: 'For Sale: Useless Ideas. One Yuan Each, Bulk Discount Available.'

Curious, I walked over and asked, "Brother, these 'useless ideas' of yours, are they guaranteed genuine?"

He pushed up his glasses and said quite seriously, "Absolutely genuine. Guaranteed to be utterly useless for getting promoted, making a fortune, marrying and having children, world peace, the mysteries of the universe... completely useless. Purely scraps of thought, wanderings of logic, free gymnastics of the imagination."

I found this rather interesting. In an age where everything emphasizes practicality and monetization, someone was openly peddling 'uselessness'. I felt my pocket, took out a one-yuan coin, and handed it to him. "Give me one."

He pondered for a moment, as if searching his vast database of uselessness, then said to me, "Got one. Listen carefully: 'If ants had enough time and intelligence, would they eventually choose to build a Tower of Babel made entirely of breadcrumbs, not to reach heaven, but simply to prove they too can undertake grand yet pointless projects?'"

I was stunned. The idea was indeed... quite useless. But somehow, like a tiny feather, it gently tickled a dormant corner of my cerebral cortex. I stood there, imagining countless ants carrying breadcrumbs, building that tower doomed to collapse, and a sense of absurd poetry suddenly welled up inside me.

"Well?" The bespectacled young man looked at me expectantly. "Is that idea useless enough? Worth one yuan?"

I nodded, solemnly placing the coin in his hand. "Worth it," I said. "Totally worth it."

He grinned happily, revealing slightly uneven teeth. "Thank you for your patronage! Welcome back anytime to buy more uselessness!"

Clutching this 'useless idea,' I continued walking. Around me, the cacophony of buying and selling, haggling, and ticking numbers persisted. But inside me, it felt like a small, tranquil enclave had formed. That idea about the ants and the breadcrumb tower – you couldn't eat it, wear it, or exchange it for any currency. It was like dark matter in the universe: you can't see it, but it truly exists and forms part of the world.

Perhaps Old Liu wasn't entirely right. Price can indeed measure many things, but there are always things that cannot, and need not, be priced. They might seem 'useless,' like poetry, philosophy, love, and those strange notions that pop up late at night. But it is precisely these 'useless' things that constitute that little bit of 'meaning' or 'interest' in being human.

I thought, maybe one day, when this global fever of buying and selling subsides, people will remember these forgotten corners again. By then, the bespectacled young man selling 'useless ideas' might be unemployed, but I guess he probably wouldn't be too upset. After all, someone who can conceive of an ant's breadcrumb tower must carry a world inside his head far richer, more cacophonous, and yet quieter than any exchange. And I, Wang Er, might continue stamping things somewhere, but I'll carry a secret inside: I know some things can never be bought or sold. Like silence, they are precious and free.