Introduction: The Drifting Sense of Learning

In order to improve my English a little, I try to use it for things that aren’t too important, like games or daily apps. But every time I use it, I end up with a strange feeling of not having grasped anything—almost like drifting, as if I never truly experienced it at all.

After thinking about it more deeply, I realized this might be the gap between translation and immersion. When Chinese, my native language, gets involved, the experience feels anchored and connected. But in a completely non-native environment, that connection disappears. Since I usually think in my mother tongue, I naturally overlook the thought process in a foreign language.

Analogy: The Controlled Sense of Execution

From my actual experience, when I’m in a game that’s fully in English, I often feel like I don’t understand anything—even the simplest words. But if I play with friends and we communicate in Chinese, suddenly it feels different. It shifts back to a mode of translation, and instantly I feel lighter, moving from chaotic confusion to a small sense of control.

This reminds me of my life in Tokyo. Even when I speak Japanese in conversations, I often feel nothing inside—as if I’m just following a prewritten script rather than living. That’s even why I’ve grown fond of listening to Chinese songs: only then, while wandering around, do I feel like I’m still alive.

Paradox: Theoretical Optimum vs. Real Retreat

But wait—this should actually be the ideal environment for language learning, right? A state fully detached from my native tongue. When I’m completely immersed in an English game, with no interference from Chinese, isn’t that the best possible scenario? After all, it’s similar to the idea of thinking in English.

Yet what I feel is quite the opposite. Facing an unfamiliar word, I instantly get the sense that I can’t do anything, that I know nothing. It triggers a kind of retreat, a withdrawal into doing nothing at all. In the end, I feel like my English hasn’t improved one bit—in fact, I’ve lost even more confidence.

Reflection: The Illusion of a Perfect Singularity

Looking back at my learning experiences, I suddenly realized—it often doesn’t feel like learning at all. Instead, I rely on instinct and context. In games or daily life, there’s more than just language: there are actions, guides, and environmental cues. Maybe I’ve only been relying on those signals to decide my next move. That gives me the illusion of understanding the target language, but in truth, the language itself gets ignored. Which means I never really learned it.

So how have I been learning (not only languages) all along? It seems I’ve always been waiting for a perfect moment to dive in. Unless everything feels “perfect,” I convince myself that investing effort is meaningless. It’s that sense of: “The collecting never stops, but the learning never begins.”

This mindset shows up not only in my feelings, but also in my environment and materials. It’s like running a “breadth-first search” algorithm—at every stage, I want to achieve some kind of optimal state before moving forward. Otherwise, I consider the effort pointless. Even forcing myself to do it feels fruitless.

Life: The Misalignment of Reason and Emotion

This reminds me of life itself. When it comes to bothersome things—whether tasks or objects—our short-term and long-term perspectives can be completely different. In the short term, they trouble us; in the long term, they may not matter at all.

Take an object, for example. In the long run, it might come in handy. But in the moment, it’s completely useless. Keeping it around for some imagined future utility leaves me stuck in discomfort. And in the end, sometimes it never even gets used.

The same misalignment happens with tidying up. Rationally, I know cleaning up will help. Emotionally, I don’t want to. Or I keep waiting for a “perfect moment” to start. The result? Until that imaginary moment comes, every reminder just brings irritation.

Conclusion: There Seems to Be No “Right Answer”

So is there really an answer to efficient learning—or to efficient living?

I think… there probably isn’t. Life is full of rational and emotional decisions. Maybe I plan to improve a certain skill during a certain period, but because the future is unpredictable—and feelings fluctuate—every attempt might turn out better or worse than expected.

That doesn’t mean there are no small tricks at all. Since new information can overturn old plans in an instant, maybe we can try constraining ourselves differently: give up one dimension, but compensate with another. Fix a certain time, and let quantity vary. Or fix a minimum quantity, and let time vary.

Extension: Purpose and Freshness

This brings me to another thought. Once something gains purpose, it often becomes harder to sustain emotionally. Even entertainment, like playing games, can turn heavy. If I play with the purpose of relieving stress, I can’t help but keep asking: “Am I actually relaxing?” That very awareness becomes a new pressure. Instead of relief, I might just get more exhausted—something like digital burnout.

That’s why people suggest: “It’s good to have more hobbies.” I think that makes sense. With different ways of relieving stress (as long as they’re genuinely interesting), you avoid relying too heavily on just one outlet.

But maybe the essence is simpler: it’s the sense of novelty. New things bring new energy.

Epilogue: An “Uncontrollable” Future

So what has this article really said? Honestly, I don’t know. Maybe it’s just the product of my confusion.

But perhaps that itself is the point—that accepting life’s uncontrollability is the truest way forward. I try to use reason to structure everything, but… no framework of reason can ever explain it all.

Just like in “state-behavior theory,” you can only know the outcome with 100% certainty if you have all the variables. But how could we ever gather all the variables of life?

Maybe the impossibility of grasping them is itself one of life’s variables.