being too ambitious is a clever form of self-sabotage过于雄心勃勃是一种巧妙的自我破坏方式

on starting, doing, being, and becoming.关于开始、行动、存在与成长

There is a moment, just before creation begins, when the work exists in its most perfect form in your imagination. It lives in a crystalline space between intention and execution, where every word is precisely chosen, every brushstroke deliberate, every note inevitable, but only in your mind. In this prelapsarian state, the work is flawless because it is nothing: a ghost of pure potential that haunts the creator with its impossible beauty.
在创作开始之前，有一个瞬间，作品在你的想象中以最完美的形式存在。它位于意图与执行之间的晶莹空间里，每个词都经过精准选择，每一笔都经过深思熟虑，每一个音符都必然存在，但这一切仅在你的脑海中。这种原始状态下，作品是无瑕的，因为它其实什么都不是：一个纯粹潜能的幽灵，带着难以置信的美丽缠绕着创作者。

This is the moment we learn to love too much.
这正是我们学会过度热爱事物的时刻。

We become curators of imaginary museums, we craft elaborate shrines to our unrealized projects… The novel that will redefine literature. The startup that will solve human suffering. The artwork that will finally make the invisible visible.
我们成为想象博物馆的策展人，打造精心的神龛，纪念那些未能实现的项目……那部将重新定义文学的小说，那家将解决人类苦难的创业公司，那件最终让无形变为有形的艺术品。

But the moment you begin to make something real, you kill the perfect version that lives in your mind.
但一旦你开始让某件事变得真实，你就会扼杀脑海中那个完美的版本。

Creation is not birth; it is murder. The murder of the impossible in service of the possible.
创造不是诞生；它是谋杀。为了可能性而牺牲不可能。

the curse of vision   “远见的诅咒”

We are perhaps the only species that suffers from our own imagination. A bird building a nest does not first conceive of the perfect nest and then suffer from the inadequacy of twigs and mud. A spider spinning a web does not pause, paralyzed by visions of geometric perfection beyond her current capabilities. But humans? We possess the strange gift of being haunted by visions of what could be, tormented by the gap between our aspirations and our abilities.
也许我们是唯一会被自己想象所折磨的物种。筑巢的鸟不会先幻想出完美的巢，然后因树枝和泥巴的不足而苦恼。织网的蜘蛛也不会因为对几何完美的幻想而停滞不前，陷入无法实现的完美构想中。但人类呢？我们拥有一种奇怪的天赋——被对可能的幻想所困扰，被理想与能力之间的差距所折磨。

This torment has a name in cognitive science: the "taste-skill discrepancy." Your taste (your ability to recognize quality) develops faster than your skill (your ability to produce it). This creates what Ira Glass famously called "the gap," but I think of it as the thing that separates creators from consumers.
在认知科学中，这种折磨被称为“品味与技巧的差距”。你的品味（识别质量的能力）发展得比你的技巧（创造能力）快。这就形成了伊拉·格拉斯所著名的“差距”，但我更愿意把它看作是创造者与消费者之间的隔阂。

Watch a child draw. They create fearlessly, unselfconsciously, because they have not yet developed the curse of sophisticated taste! They draw purple trees and flying elephants with the confidence of someone who has never been told that trees aren't purple, that elephants don't fly. But somewhere around age eight or nine, taste arrives like a harsh critic, and suddenly the gap opens. The child can see that their drawing doesn't match the impossible standard their developing aesthetic sense has conjured.
看看一个孩子画画。他们无所畏惧、毫不自觉地创作，因为他们还没有被“高雅品味的诅咒”所困扰！他们画紫色的树和会飞的象，信心满满，就像从未被告知树不是紫色的、象不会飞一样。但到了八九岁左右，品味像一个严厉的评论家一样出现，突然间，差距就展开了。孩子开始意识到，他们的画作无法达到自己逐渐形成的审美标准。

This is what leads most of us to stop drawing. Not because we lack talent, but because we've developed the ability to judge before we've developed the ability to execute. We become connoisseurs of our own inadequacy.
这也是大多数人停止画画的原因。不是因为缺乏天赋，而是因为我们在还没有掌握技巧之前，就学会了评判。我们变成了自己不足之处的鉴赏家。

And this is where our minds, in their desperate attempt, devise an elegant escape. Faced with this unbearable gap, we develop what researchers call "productive avoidance" — staying busy with planning, researching, and dreaming while avoiding the vulnerable act of creating something concrete that might fail. It feels like work because it engages all our intellectual faculties. But it functions as avoidance because it protects us from the terrifying possibility of creating something imperfect. I see this in wannabe founders listening to podcasts on loop, wannabe TikTokkers watching hours of videos as “research,” and wannabe novelists who spend years developing character backstories for books they never begin.
这正是我们的思想在绝望中设法找到的优雅逃避。当面对这个无法忍受的差距时，我们会发展出研究人员所称的“有益的回避”——忙于规划、研究和梦想，而避免去做可能失败的具体创作。这感觉像是在工作，因为它动用了我们所有的智力，但它实际上是一种逃避，因为它保护我们免受创造出不完美作品的可怕可能性。我看到一些准创业者反复听播客，准 TikTok 用户长时间观看视频作为“研究”，以及准小说家花费数年时间为未开始写的书构建人物背景。

The spider doesn't face this problem. It spins webs according to ancient genetic instructions, each one remarkably similar to the last. But human creativity requires us to navigate the treacherous territory between what we can imagine and what we can actually do. We are cursed with visions of perfection and blessed with the capacity to fail toward them.
蜘蛛没有这个问题。它们按照古老的基因指令织网，每一张都与上一张惊人地相似。但人类的创造力需要我们在想象与实际行动之间的危险领域中航行。我们被完美的幻象所诅咒，也被失败的能力所祝福。

my favorite anecdote… “the best is the enemy of the good”
我最喜欢的轶事……“最好的敌人是好的”

In a photography classroom at the University of Florida, Jerry Uelsmann unknowingly designed the perfect experiment for understanding excellence. He divided his students into two groups.
在佛罗里达大学的摄影教室里，杰瑞·乌尔斯曼无意中设计了一个理解卓越的完美实验。他将学生分成了两组。

The quantity group would be graded on volume: one hundred photos for an A, ninety photos for a B, eighty photos for a C, and so on.
数量组将根据数量评分：一百张照片为 A，九十张为 B，八十张为 C，依此类推。

The quality group only need to present one perfect photo.
品质组只需呈现一张完美的照片。

At semester's end, all the best photos came from the quantity group.
学期结束时，所有最好的照片都来自数量组。

The quantity group learned something that cannot be taught: that excellence emerges from intimacy with imperfection, that mastery is built through befriending failure, that the path to creating one perfect thing runs directly through creating many imperfect things.
数量组学到了一些无法传授的东西：卓越源于对不完美的亲密接触，精通来自于与失败为友，通往完美作品的道路，实际上是通过创造许多不完美的作品而铺就的。

Think about what those hundred attempts actually were: a hundred conversations with light. A hundred experiments in composition. A hundred opportunities to see the gap between intention and result, and to adjust. A hundred chances to discover that reality has opinions about your vision, and that those opinions are often more interesting than your original plan.
想想那些百次尝试到底意味着什么：与光的百次对话；百次构图实验；百次发现意图与结果之间差距并加以调整的机会；百次意识到现实对你的愿景有自己的看法，而这些看法往往比你最初的计划更有趣。

The quality group, meanwhile, spent their semester in theoretical purgatory… analyzing perfect photographs, studying ideal compositions, researching optimal techniques. They developed sophisticated knowledge about photography without developing the embodied wisdom that comes only from repeatedly pressing the shutter and living with the consequences.
与此同时，质量组在他们的学期里，仿佛在理论的炼狱中煎熬……分析完美的照片，研究理想的构图，探索最佳的拍摄技巧。他们掌握了关于摄影的深厚知识，却没有培养出只有通过反复按下快门、与后果共存才能获得的实践智慧。

They became experts in the map while the quantity group was exploring the territory. When the semester ended, the quality group could tell you why a photograph was excellent. The quantity group could make excellent photographs.
他们在数量组探索领土时，已经成为了地图方面的专家。等到学期结束，质量组就能告诉你一张照片为什么优秀。而数量组则能拍出优秀的照片。

your brain, it turns out, is an exquisite liar
事实证明，你的大脑其实是一个精妙的骗子。

When you imagine achieving something, the same neural reward circuits fire as when you actually achieve it. This creates what neuroscientists call "goal substitution"—your brain begins to treat planning as accomplishing. The planning feels so satisfying because, neurologically, it is satisfying. You're getting a real high from an imaginary achievement.
当你想象自己实现某个目标时，与你真正实现它时激活的神经奖励回路是一样的。这就形成了神经科学家所说的“目标替代”——你的大脑开始把计划当作是实现。因为在神经层面上，规划带来的满足感就像是成就感一样。你正从一场虚幻的成就中获得真正的快感。

But here's where it gets interesting: this neurological quirk serves us beautifully in some contexts and destroys us in others. An Olympic athlete visualizing their routine creates neural pathways that improve actual performance. They're using imagination to enhance capability they already possess. A surgeon mentally rehearsing a complex procedure is optimizing skills they've already developed through years of practice.
但有趣的是：这种神经学的怪癖在某些情况下对我们大有帮助，而在另一些情况下却会毁了我们。奥运运动员在脑中想象他们的比赛流程，会激活神经通路，从而提升实际表现。他们利用想象力增强自己已经具备的能力。一名外科医生在脑中排练复杂手术，也是在优化通过多年练习已掌握的技能。

But when imagination becomes a substitute for practice rather than an enhancement of it, the same mechanism becomes a trap. The aspiring novelist who spends months crafting the perfect outline gets the same neurological reward as the novelist who spends months actually writing. The brain can't tell the difference between productive preparation and elaborate procrastination.
但当想象变成了练习的替代品，而不是对练习的增强时，同样的机制就变成了陷阱。那些花费数月时间精心设计完美大纲的小说家，获得的神经奖励与真正花数月写作的小说家一样。大脑无法区分高效准备和繁琐拖延。

the illusion of instant excellence
瞬间卓越的幻觉

The algorithmic machinery of attention has, of course, engineered simple comparison. But it has also seemingly erased the process that makes mastery possible. A time-lapse of someone creating a masterpiece gets millions of views. A real-time video of someone struggling through their hundredth mediocre attempt disappears into algorithmic obscurity.
当然，注意力的算法机制本身就是通过简单的比较来实现的。但它似乎也抹去了让精通成为可能的过程。一段有人创作杰作的慢动作视频会获得数百万的观看次数，而一段真实反映某人挣扎于第百次平庸尝试的实时视频，却会在算法的无形中被淹没。

Instagram shows you the finished painting, never the failed color experiments. TikTok shows you the perfect performance, never the thousand imperfect rehearsals. LinkedIn shows you the promotion announcement, never the years of unglamorous skill-building that made it possible.
Instagram 展示的是成品画作，从不展示失败的调色实验。TikTok 展示的是完美的表演，从不展示千次不完美的排练。LinkedIn 展示的是晋升公告，从不展示那些让晋升成为可能的多年不光彩的技能积累。

This creates what media theorist Neil Postman would have recognized as a "technological epistemology:" the platforms don't just change what we see, they change what we think knowledge looks like. We begin to believe that learning should be immediately visible, that progress should be consistently upward, that struggle is evidence of inadequacy rather than necessity.
这形成了媒介理论家尼尔·波兹曼所称的“技术认知论”：这些平台不仅改变了我们所见，还改变了我们对知识的认知方式。我们开始相信学习应当立即可见，进步应当持续向上，挣扎被视为不足的表现，而非必要的过程。

The truth is that every masterpiece exists within an invisible ecology of lesser works. The great painting emerges from hundreds of studies, sketches, and failed attempts. The brilliant book grows from years of mediocre writing. The breakthrough innovation builds on countless small improvements and partial failures. We see the oak tree, never the acorns. The symphony, never the scales. The masterpiece, never the apprenticeship.
事实是，每一件杰作都存在于一个看不见的次级作品生态系统中。伟大的画作源自数百次的素描、草图和失败的尝试。精彩的书籍来自多年的平庸写作。突破性的创新建立在无数次的小改进和部分失败之上。我们看到的是橡树，而不是橡果；是交响乐，而不是音阶；是杰作，而不是学徒时期。

Too much ambition disrupts this natural ecology; it demands that every attempt be significant, every effort be worthy of the ultimate vision. But the ecology of mastery requires something our culture has systematically devalued: the privilege of being a beginner.
过度的野心会破坏这种自然的生态；它要求每一次尝试都要重要，每一次努力都要配得上终极的愿景。而精通的生态系统需要我们文化系统性贬值的东西：作为新手的特权。

Watch a four-year-old finger-paint. They don't create for Instagram likes or gallery walls or market validation. They create for the pure joy of watching colors bleed into each other, for the satisfying squish of paint between fingers, for the magic of making something exist that didn't exist before. They possess the freedom to create without the burden of expectation.
观看一个四岁的孩子用手指作画。他们不是为了 Instagram 的点赞、画廊的展出或市场的认可而创作，而是为了纯粹的快乐——看着颜色相互渗透，指尖挤压出令人满足的颜料，感受创造出之前不存在的事物的奇妙。他们拥有无拘无束的创造自由，不背负任何期待的负担。

Learning anything as an adult means reclaiming this beginner's privilege. It means giving yourself permission to be bad at something, to create things that serve no purpose other than your own discovery and delight. The beginner's mind understands that mastery emerges from play, that excellence grows from experimentation, that the path to creating something great runs directly through creating many things that aren't great at all.
作为成年人学习任何新事物，意味着重新获得这种“新手特权”。这意味着允许自己在某些方面不擅长，创造那些除了带来个人发现和快乐之外没有其他目的的作品。新手心态明白，精通源于玩耍，卓越来自于试验，通往伟大之作的道路，正是通过不断创造那些并不完美的作品。

My alma mater, Olin College of Engineering, had a motto that rewired how I think about everything: "Do-Learn." Those two words contain a revolution. Not "learn-then-do," which implies you must earn permission to act. Not "think-then-execute," which suggests theory should precede practice. But the radical idea that doing is learning! That understanding emerges from your hands as much as your head, that wisdom lives in the conversation between intention and reality.
我的母校奥林工程学院有一句校训，彻底改变了我对一切的看法：“做-学”。这两个词蕴含着一场革命。不是“学然后做”，意味着你必须获得许可才能行动；也不是“思考然后执行”，暗示理论应优先于实践。而是一个激进的理念：做就是学习！理解来自你的双手和大脑同样的源泉，智慧存在于意图与现实的对话之中。

This philosophy saved me from my own perfectionism more times than I can count. When I wanted to learn cooking, I didn't read recipes endlessly; I burned onions and discovered how heat actually behaves. When I wanted to learn a language, I didn't memorize grammar rules; I stumbled through conversations with native speakers who corrected my mistakes in real time. When I wanted to learn how to monetize on YouTube, I didn't write elaborate content strategies; I started posting videos and let the brutal feedback teach me what actually resonated.
这种哲学让我多次摆脱了自己的完美主义。当我想学做饭时，我没有反复阅读食谱，而是把洋葱烧焦，发现了热量的真实表现。当我想学一门语言时，我没有死记硬背语法规则，而是在与母语者的对话中磕磕绊绊，他们实时纠正我的错误。当我想学会在 YouTube 上变现时，我没有写详细的内容策略，而是开始上传视频，让残酷的反馈教会我什么才是真正引起共鸣。

"Do-Learn" gave me permission to start before I was ready, fail early, fail often, to discover through making rather than thinking my way to readiness.
“做中学”让我在还未准备好时就开始，早失败，频繁失败，通过实践而非思考来不断探索，直到找到准备的办法。

the quitting point  放弃的临界点

Here's what happens to those brave enough to actually begin: you discover that starting is only the first challenge. The real test comes later, at "the quitting point" —that inevitable moment when the initial excitement fades and the work reveals its true nature.
那些勇敢开始的人会经历什么呢：你会发现，开始只是第一个挑战。真正的考验在后面，也就是“放弃的临界点”——那一刻，最初的兴奋逐渐消退，工作展现出它的真实面貌。

courtesy of Tomas Svitorka, at tomassvitorka.com
由 Tomas Svitorka 提供，网址为 tomassvitorka.com

The quitting point arrives differently for different people, but it always arrives. For writers, maybe it’s around page 30 of their novel, when the initial burst of inspiration runs out and they realize they have no idea what happens next. For entrepreneurs, maybe it’s after the first few months, when the market doesn't respond as enthusiastically as friends and family did. For artists, it might come when they see their work objectively for the first time and realize the enormous gap between their vision and their current capability.
放弃的时刻因人而异，但它总会到来。对于作家来说，可能是在小说的第 30 页左右，当最初的灵感枯竭，他们意识到自己不知道接下来会发生什么。对于创业者来说，可能是在前几个月之后，当市场的反应没有朋友和家人预期的那么热烈。对于艺术家来说，可能是在第一次用客观的眼光审视自己的作品时，意识到自己的愿景与当前的能力之间存在巨大的差距。

This is the moment that separates the quantity group from the quality group: not at the beginning, but in the middle, when the work stops being fun and starts being work.
这正是区分数量组和质量组的时刻：不是在开始时，而是在中途，当作品不再有趣，变成了工作。

The quantity group has an advantage here! They've already become intimate with imperfection. They've learned that each attempt is data, not judgment. They've developed what psychologists call "task orientation" rather than "ego orientation;" they're focused on improving the work rather than protecting their self-image.
数量组在这里占优势！他们已经与不完美变得熟悉。他们明白每一次尝试都是数据，而不是评判。他们培养了心理学所说的“任务导向”而非“自我导向”；他们专注于改进作品，而不是保护自我形象。

But the quality group approaches this moment with a different psychology. Having spent so much time crafting perfect plans, they interpret early struggles as evidence that something is wrong! They expected the work to validate their vision, but instead it reveals the distance between intention and capability.
但质量团队以不同的心态面对这一时刻。经过如此多时间精心制定完美的计划，他们将早期的困难视为出问题的证据！他们原本期待作品能验证他们的愿景，但实际上却暴露了意图与能力之间的差距。

I think this is where most creative projects die — not from lack of talent or resources, but from misunderstanding the nature of the work itself. The quitting point feels like failure, but it's actually where the real work begins.
我认为大多数创意项目失败的原因不在于缺乏天赋或资源，而在于对作品本质的误解。放弃的那一刻看似失败，但实际上才是正式开始真正工作的起点。

It's the transition from working with imaginary materials to working with real ones, from theory to practice, from planning to building.
这标志着从使用想象中的材料转向使用真实的材料，从理论走向实践，从规划迈向建造的转变。

The quitting point is the moment you discover whether you want to be someone who had a great idea or someone who made something real.
放弃的点在于你是否意识到自己想成为一个有伟大想法的人，还是一个将想法变为现实的人。

lower the stakes!  降低风险！

Counterintuitively, the path to creating your best work often begins with permission to create your worst.
反直觉的是，创作出最佳作品的道路，往往始于允许自己创作最差的作品。

When you lower the stakes, you enter into a conversation with reality. Reality has opinions about your work that are often more interesting than your own. Reality shows you what works and what doesn't. Reality introduces you to happy accidents and unexpected directions. Reality is the collaborator you didn't know you needed.
当你降低赌注时，你就与现实展开对话。现实对你的作品有自己的看法，这些看法往往比你自己的更有趣。现实会告诉你什么有效，什么无效。它会带来意外的巧合和出乎意料的方向。现实是你未曾意识到需要的合作伙伴。

This is how standards are actually achieved… through process, not proclamation. The photographer who takes a hundred photos develops standards through practice. The writer who writes daily develops judgment through repetition. The entrepreneur who starts small develops wisdom through experience.
这才是真正实现标准的方法……通过过程，而非宣言。拍摄百张照片的摄影师通过实践建立标准；每天写作的作家通过反复锻炼培养判断力；从小起步的创业者通过经验积累智慧。

Last week, something I wrote went viral on Substack. In a matter of days, I gained over a thousand new subscribers, watched my piece get shared across platforms, and felt that intoxicating rush of work that resonates beyond your own echo chamber. I'm deeply grateful, truly. But almost immediately, a familiar pit opened in my stomach. What now? What if the next one doesn't land? How do you follow something that took on a life of its own?
上周，我写的文章在 Substack 上意外走红。几天之内，我新增了超过一千名订阅者，看到我的作品在各个平台被广泛分享，那种超越自我回音室的激动感让我陶醉。我由衷地感激，但几乎立刻，我的胃里又涌起一股熟悉的不安。接下来怎么办？如果下一篇没有那么成功怎么办？如何接续那已经拥有生命的作品？

I found myself opening blank pages and closing them again, paralyzed by the very success I'd worked toward for years.
我发现自己打开空白的页面，又重新合上，因多年来努力追求的成功而变得一筹莫展。

When I expressed this fear, a reader named Harsh (@harshdarji) left this comment: "You are a shooter, your job is to keep shooting. Don't even think about misses. Because as soon as you start worrying about the misses, you'll start doubting your ability."
当我表达这种担忧时，一位名叫 Harsh（@harshdarji）的读者留言说：“你是个射手，你的工作就是不断射击。别去想是否会失误。因为一旦你开始担心失误，你就会开始怀疑自己的能力。”

Not much of a sports gal, but the metaphor moved me. And the irony wasn't lost on me! Here I was, dispensing advice about creative consistency and the dangers of perfectionism, yet falling into the exact trap I warn others about.
我并不算是个运动迷，但这个比喻让我很感动。而且，我也没有错过其中的讽刺！我在这里为别人提供关于创作坚持和完美主义危险的建议，却恰恰陷入了我所警告的那个陷阱。

I started writing on Substack in December 2022. It's now mid-2025, and I've just reached my goal of being in the top 50 Tech Substacks in the world. There was so much doing, doing, doing before this one hit. Dozens of pieces that barely made a ripple. Months of showing up to write for an audience I wasn't sure existed.
我在 2022 年 12 月开始在 Substack 写作。现在是 2025 年中，我刚刚实现了进入全球前 50 名科技 Substack 的目标。在此之前，我经历了无数的努力与付出。数十篇文章几乎没有引起任何波澜。几个月来，我坚持为一个我不确定是否存在的读者群写作。

But success has a way of making you forget the very process that created it. It whispers seductive lies about repeatability, about formulas, about the possibility of controlling outcomes rather than focusing on inputs. It makes you think you need to "top" your last success instead of simply continuing the practice that made success possible in the first place.
但成功总会让你忘记创造它的那个过程。它低语着诱人的谎言，关于可重复性、关于公式、关于控制结果而非专注于投入。它让你以为需要“超越”上一次的成功，而不是继续坚持那些让你取得成功的实践。

I need to remind myself:
我需要提醒自己：
Your masterpiece won't emerge from your mind fully formed like Athena from Zeus's head. It will emerge from your willingness to start badly and improve steadily. It will emerge from your commitment to showing up consistently rather than brilliantly. It will emerge from your ability to see failure as information rather than indictment.
你的杰作不会像雅典娜从宙斯的头颅中完全成形那样从你的脑海中诞生。它会源自你愿意一开始就表现得不好并不断稳步改进的决心。它会来自你坚持持续努力而非追求一时的精彩。它会来自你将失败视为信息而非指控的能力。

The work that will matter most to you, the work that will surprise you with its significance, is probably much smaller than you imagine and much closer than you think.
对你来说最重要的作品，带给你意想不到意义的作品，可能远比你想象中要小得多，也比你想象中要近得多。

My Olin professors were right about those two words. Do. Learn. But what I didn't fully internalize until after graduation: the learning never stops requiring the doing. The doing never stops requiring learning. The work changes me. I change the work. The work changes me again.
奥林学院的教授们关于那两个词的观点是对的。做，学习。但直到毕业后，我才真正领会到：学习永远离不开实践，实践也永远离不开学习。工作改变我，我也在改变工作，工作再次改变我。

We are still the only species cursed with visions of what could be. But perhaps that's humanity's most beautiful accident. To be haunted by possibilities we cannot yet reach, to be driven by dreams that exceed our current grasp. The curse and the gift are the same thing: we see further than we can walk, dream bigger than we can build, imagine more than we can create.
我们仍然是唯一被赋予对未来可能的幻想的物种。但也许这正是人类最美丽的意外。被尚未实现的可能性所困扰，被超越我们当前能力的梦想所驱使。诅咒与恩赐本质相同：我们看到的比脚步所及更远，梦想得比我们能实现的更宏大，想象得比我们能创造的更多。

And so we make imperfect things in service of perfect visions. We write rough drafts toward masterpieces we may never achieve. We build prototypes of futures we can barely envision. We close the gap between imagination and reality one flawed attempt at a time.
因此，我们为了追求完美的愿景而创造不完美的作品。我们写下草稿，朝着可能永远无法实现的杰作努力。我们构建未来的原型，几乎无法想象的未来。我们一次又一次用有缺陷的尝试，缩小想象与现实之间的差距。

The photography professor divided his class and waited. He knew what the darkroom would teach them, what the developing chemicals would reveal. Fifty rolls of film later, some students had learned to make beauty from mess. Others had learned to make theories from anxiety.
摄影教授将班级分开后，静静等待。他知道暗房会教会他们什么，冲洗药水会揭示什么。经过五十卷胶卷后，有些学生学会了从混乱中创造美丽，有些学生则学会了用焦虑构建理论。

The film didn't care about their intentions. It only responded to their willingness to press the shutter.
电影并不在意他们的意图，只在乎他们是否愿意按下快门。

Your hands are already dirty. The work is waiting. Lower the stakes, and begin.
你的双手已经沾满尘埃，工作在等待。放低心中的重担，开始吧。