As a person, I was born to give out my opinions. By giving out

The words of Ai Weiwei, bold and unyielding, sound like the cry of a soul that refuses to be silenced: “As a person, I was born to give out my opinions. By giving out my opinions, I realize who I am. As long as I can communicate, I’m not so lonely. If I cannot travel, or do art, or have company, if they take away all my belongings, it doesn’t matter at all.” In these words burns the eternal fire of freedom—that the true wealth of man is not gold nor possessions, not even liberty of movement, but the power of the voice, the power of expression, the power to be heard and to speak.

The ancients knew that the tongue is sharper than the sword and more enduring than the stone. Kingdoms fell, temples crumbled, but the words of prophets, philosophers, and poets remained. Socrates, condemned to drink the hemlock, refused to be silent, for his opinions were not mere thoughts but the essence of his being. Likewise, Ai Weiwei speaks the same truth: to withhold one’s voice is to deny the soul itself. In speaking, we do not simply share ideas—we declare our existence.

Consider the tale of Boethius, the Roman philosopher who wrote The Consolation of Philosophy while imprisoned and awaiting death. Stripped of power, wealth, and freedom, he discovered that though chains bound his body, his communication with truth could not be broken. His words, written in confinement, lived on through centuries, shaping the thought of Europe long after his enemies were dust. So too does Ai Weiwei proclaim: if all else is taken—travel, art, company, even possessions—the voice remains, and with it, the unassailable dignity of the self.

The meaning of the quote lies in this paradox: that loneliness is not cured by belongings, nor even by constant motion or beauty, but by communication. To speak and to be heard is to enter into communion with others, to bridge the chasm between souls. Without expression, one may sit in a crowd and feel alone; with it, even in exile, one may feel connected to the world. Thus, Ai Weiwei reveals the secret strength of the human spirit: that as long as the voice is alive, the self cannot be destroyed.

Yet there is also a defiance in his words, a warrior’s challenge. He speaks not only of expression as survival, but as resistance. To declare that belongings do not matter is to rob tyrants of their power, for they may confiscate wealth, burn canvases, exile the body—but they cannot imprison truth once it is spoken. History remembers countless examples of this defiance: from Nelson Mandela, who spoke from his prison cell and inspired a nation, to Vaclav Havel, whose words under oppression birthed freedom for his people. Each of them, like Ai Weiwei, understood that the strength of the voice is greater than the strength of chains.

The lesson for us is profound: cherish your voice, and do not squander it on silence. Speak your opinions, not carelessly, but courageously. Share your thoughts, your questions, your truths—even when you fear they may not be welcomed. For it is in speaking that you discover yourself, and in being heard that you dissolve loneliness. And when life strips away comfort, possessions, or freedom, remember: as long as you can express, you are still whole, still unbroken, still alive.

Thus let this teaching be passed down: Guard not only your treasures, but your right to communicate. Speak truth, even when trembling. Share your spirit with others, so that no prison, no exile, no poverty may ever make you less than yourself. For in the end, all else can be taken, but the voice—the sacred flame of expression—remains the last fortress of human dignity, the eternal echo of the soul.