As the Chinese New Year draws near, the red lanterns are going up, but the optimism that once filled China’s biggest cities is nowhere to be found. The economy continues its downward slide, job opportunities are shrinking, and by 2026 even Beijing — a city of nearly 23 million people — feels strangely hollow. Commercial streets that used to pulse with traffic and neon now echo with footsteps. Storefront lights are dim. Restaurants that once required reservations now sit half empty. The capital still looks grand on the surface, but underneath, something has shifted.
Many residents say the pressure of living has become unbearable. Prices have not softened, but incomes have. Some people quietly admit they no longer have the security of a guaranteed meal. In the past, trash bins behind restaurants were filled with leftover food. Those struggling could eat from what others discarded and even save a little cash. It was humiliating, perhaps, but it worked. Now even that fragile safety net is disappearing. People have become frugal. They order less, waste less, and dine out far less often. Fewer customers mean fewer restaurants operating at full scale. Fewer restaurants mean fewer trash bins. And inside those bins, almost nothing remains.

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Shanghai is in decline. It is no longer the dazzling “Pearl of the Orient” lit up through the night, no longer the symbol of wealth, opportunity, and relentless crowds. Today, when you step onto avenues that were once packed shoulder to shoulder, you find emptiness. Emptiness on the sidewalks. Emptiness inside shopping malls. Emptiness in the eyes of those who remain.
Huaihai Road—the commercial heart of the city—now has afternoons so quiet you can hear the wind slipping between the glass towers. Nanjing Road, once a street that never slept, now sees 6 p.m. evenings when shops sit closed, lights dim, employees leaning against counters waiting for customers who never arrive. Xintiandi—once fully booked every weekend night—now has only a scattering of tables occupied, with more empty chairs than people.

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In recent years, a disturbing pattern has begun to surface across Chinese social media. Video after video shows violent shaking inside the carriages of high-speed trains. Seats tremble. Tables vibrate. Passengers grip armrests tightly, some whispering that it feels as if the train could lose control at any moment. A few describe the sensation bluntly: it feels like life and death are separated by only seconds.
At first, these clips were dismissed as isolated incidents. Every transportation system has occasional technical issues. But the frequency increased. The comments multiplied. Anxiety spread. And a deeper question began to take shape: What is happening behind the polished image of one of the world’s largest high-speed rail networks?

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I heard that many yellow lanterns are hanging on the streets of Beijing. If I didn’t know better, I would think this wasn’t the New Year at all. During the New Year, people are supposed to hang red lanterns—bright red, festive, full of life. But when you wake up and see that all the lanterns are yellow, it feels wrong. Completely wrong.
Yellow lanterns? What does that mean? Do you know? Why does it feel so unsettling? Many people are hanging yellow lanterns today, but this yellow—this color—carries a heavy feeling. It doesn’t look celebratory. It doesn’t feel joyful. It feels serious, ominous, even like a bad sign.

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I live on the 35th floor, and I want you to understand something clearly before this video goes any further: buying this apartment may be the biggest mistake of my life. Not because it’s small. Not because it’s old. But because it is already dying. After just two months, I realized something terrifying—no matter how much money I lose, no one wants to buy it. Five million yuan gone, and still no buyer. That’s when it hit me. These towers aren’t homes. They’re time bombs. And across China, millions of people are living inside them without even knowing it.

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In 2025, China did not simply endure another natural disaster. The country slid into a national nightmare where extreme weather collided head-on with political arrogance, turning floods into a brutal test of survival, governance, and truth. What followed was not merely water overwhelming land, but reality overwhelming propaganda. As rivers burst their banks and cities drowned, decades of carefully constructed narratives collapsed under the weight of mud, fear, and human desperation. The myth of absolute control began to crack, just like the concrete structures meant to hold the water back.

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