A Letter of Protest from My Stomach

— To Those Who Have Neglected Their Bodies

If my stomach were literate, it would have long submitted a formal letter of protest to my brain.

“Dear Master, with all due respect, you have truly taken me for granted. I’ve endured enough.”

All those times you washed down spicy food with ice-cold drinks, chugged oversized cups of coffee on an empty stomach while burning the midnight oil—I remained silent. I watched you bury yourself in research, and I tolerated it.

But this time, I’ve had enough.

I have no choice but to take inspiration from the working class—a strike, a protest, and a full-scale demonstration.

And what better timing than now, with an “external enemy” invading your body. I have chosen to launch my protest in the form of a condition known as stomach flu, deploying waves of pain to force you to halt your work and finally listen to me.

Of course, I understand the wisdom of “Reversion is the action of Tao. Gentleness is the function of Tao” (translated by Yutang Lin). I did not intend to launch a full-scale rebellion right away.

I started gently, subtly. A mild fatigue, a vague discomfort in the belly—just enough to give you a hint, to make you pause and take notice.

I still remember that day: entranced by the snowy landscape, you stayed outside longer than usual, letting the cold seep into your body. Later, you spent three grueling hours in the kitchen preparing a lavish New Year’s Eve dinner. Your body, already exhausted, had its defenses weakened. Yet despite this, you feasted late into the night—oily, spicy, excessive—until well past 9:30 PM, stuffing yourself to the brim without once considering my wellbeing.

"Unbelievable. My master has truly pushed me to the brink." I thought to myself.

The next day, I began to make my presence known, this time more assertively.

A dull ache settled into your gut, rhythmic, like waves lapping gently against the shore—a patient but clear reminder:

“Master, it's time you start taking care of me.”

But still, you ignored my kind warning.

You carried on, busy as ever, lost in your tasks, pushing your body beyond its limits. I even heard your thoughts echoing in the back of your mind:

"It's nothing serious. I just need some sleep."

Fine. If that’s how you want to play, I’ll escalate my tactics.

By the morning of the third day, you finally started to suspect that something was wrong.

As you woke, your head felt heavy and clouded, as if one side of your brain had been wrapped in a dense fog. Your ears, inexplicably blocked, left you feeling like you were floating in a warm spring, disconnected from reality.

And that's when I knew—I had succeeded.

You were finally aware of my existence.

At first, you still tried to push through, thinking you could endure hunger a bit longer before eating. But little did you know, I had already planned a seismic-level protest.

Every 300 seconds, like a slow but relentless pendulum, I struck with a rhythmic pulse of pain.

BAM—A sharp cramp twisted deep into your stomach lining.

Wait five minutes. BAM—Here we go again.

Another five minutes. BAM—Let’s add a little more intensity this time.

Finally, you surrendered. You curled up in bed, clutching your belly, contemplating the meaning of life. I even heard your whispered admission:

“Damn… I think I’m actually sick. My stomach has had enough.”

Do you think you’re Nietzsche?

I recall him once saying: "Even the slightest stomach illness can alter one’s worldview."

How true. When your stomach starts acting up every few minutes, you begin to reevaluate life itself.

Nietzsche spent his entire existence tormented by digestive issues. Perhaps, before his philosophy of the Übermensch could even be tested, his greatest adversary was his own stomach.

Or maybe you'd rather take after Balzac, who relentlessly drove himself into ruin?

To pay off his debts, the man forced himself to complete over one hundred novels before the age of forty, creating a literary empire of more than two thousand characters. But the real price he paid? Severe stomach issues and excruciating nerve pain. In the end, he barely made it to fifty-one years old.

It is said that he consumed fifty cups of black coffee a day to keep writing.

Fifty. Cups.

Imagine the suffering his stomach endured.

Or would you rather model yourself after Beihong Xu, the renowned Chinese painter?

He spent his years in France obsessively perfecting his craft, painting tirelessly with little regard for his health. In the end, he was plagued by chronic stomach illness and intestinal spasms—his body breaking down even as he reached his artistic prime. He passed away at fifty-eight, leaving behind galloping horses that could no longer run with him.

Tell me, Master—do you really wish to follow in their footsteps?

Perhaps you think you’re one of the lucky ones, that your body can endure endless abuse, that your sheer willpower can carry you through anything.

But let me tell you—you are not special.

You are not the first to overestimate your endurance, nor will you be the last. Countless others before you have wasted away, believing they could push past the limits of their own flesh.

And honestly? Seeing you suffer like this, I feel no joy.

A protest is a protest, but I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t also try to comfort you.

You know, some people endure far greater physical afflictions than yours. Yet instead of succumbing to despair, they channel their pain into deeper thought, greater wisdom, a broader spirit.

You often find yourself deeply moved by Shi Tiesheng's writings, don’t you? But have you ever considered how he faced his own illness?

Confined to a wheelchair at a young age, later afflicted with kidney failure, he spent his life tethered to dialysis machines. He once wrote in Notes from a Sickbed:

“When the body suffers, the mind often awakens.”

Perhaps it was precisely because of his broken body that he learned to observe life with greater clarity, probing the depths of human existence through his words.

And what about Helen Keller?

Her suffering, her darkness, was beyond anything you have ever known. And yet, she responded not with despair, but with wisdom, leaving behind words that still resonate today:

“The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even heard, but must be felt with the heart.”

Compared to them, you have merely experienced a stomach flu.

It is fine to groan, to wonder, to reflect. But I hope you do not wallow.

Master, this protest of mine was never meant to be an act of cruelty. Nor do I recite these historical anecdotes to show off my knowledge.

I simply wanted to remind you, through a pain you can still endure—

You are only human. And you must take care of the citizens that reside within you.

At the end of this letter, I must say—I love you. I am willing to continue working diligently. But I, too, wish to be loved and respected.

With best regards,

Your Lovely Stomach

Lying in bed, I felt a momentary daze, then a strange sense of clarity.

As I reflected on my stomach’s letter, I realized: It had never suddenly become weak or fragile. I was the one who had been draining its patience and goodwill.

Perhaps illness is the body’s way of sending us a letter of protest.

For too long, I have fixated on the noise of the world, chasing meaning beyond myself, without ever stopping to listen to the quiet voices within.

Now, in my early thirties, I’ve begun to feel the grip of stomach pain, headaches, exhaustion, and sleepless nights… But on second thought, they’re not terrifying afflictions. If anything, they are reminders—subtle yet brimming with life.

Dear stomach, perhaps I finally understand the deeper meaning behind your words.

From now on, I won't turn a blind eye to you—so let's call it even, shall we?

Let's learn to live in harmony.

I run my hand gently over my stomach, close my eyes, and let sleep take me once more.

David

Written in a snow-laden cabin, somewhere in Edmonton

February 7, 2025