I’m Lingxi Kong, also called Gaius, born in Wuhan, China. Studying classics and journalism at Columbia drew me toward questions I still return to: how language shapes judgment, how older thought enters present experience, and what a person can do with what he comes to understand. Books opened worlds beyond my own; practical work kept reopening answers that had seemed complete on the page.

Now in my third year of law school, I find many of those questions as immediate as ever, though experience has changed how I ask them: how someone’s circumstances become visible, how an account earns trust, and how a decision moves through understanding and hesitation into a life. I want to stay with those details, and leave my judgments open to revision.

Poetry is another handwriting left by these experiences. Meaning can wait in a pause or an unwritten line, becoming clear years later. This notebook stays open in that spirit: work, reading, writing, and unfinished thoughts, gradually taking the shape of a person.

While studying in New York, I helped organize a discussion on Tibet across different positions, and interviewed the Dalai Lama in 2008; those experiences kept me asking how an argument’s account of the world relates to the lives of the people it describes. However complete an explanation sounds, journalism must return to people, documents, and circumstances, looking for experiences obscured by generalizations and voices still unheard.

My earlier writing returned repeatedly to information, language, and independent thought, because a society’s understanding of itself shapes how people recognize their rights and responsibilities. Molihua turns that concern into continuing editorial work, making public affairs examinable and disagreement better informed. Questions directed at power and attention given to dissent should both withstand examination; a publication matters when it helps more people acquire that capacity.

I have helped hundreds of students enter U.S. undergraduate and graduate programs, many admitted to leading institutions; that work sharpened my attention to the year, definitions, institutional source, and unanswered questions behind a figure. Admission rates, cost components, and current requirements should be explained and correctable, with published facts, derived results, and unresolved gaps kept distinguishable, so applicants can continue investigating beyond an apparently precise number.

Studying classics and journalism at Columbia kept me interested in how education changes understanding and whether people can fully explain their choices. LIA turns that concern into resources anyone can use. An institution’s name is one consideration among courses, environment, cost, and future life; an application becomes someone’s own decision when they understand why they are choosing, what they will invest, and which trade-offs they are willing to accept.

I am closely familiar with astrology, Bazi, Zi Wei Dou Shu, Chinese name analysis, and other traditions concerned with individual fate, and have read the charts of more than a thousand people; that experience makes comparison and traceable premises central to my teaching. The school’s Chinese courses connect Parashara and Jaimini approaches in Vedic astrology with natal and divisional charts, planetary states and relationships, periods, timing, and rectification, so students can examine how data and analytical structures support an interpretation.

An inquiry into fate must also consider how someone experiences it: how awareness, habits, emotions, and action enter a response to difficulty and participate in inner growth. My writing on karma, free will, consciousness, and impermanence therefore belongs beside the technical teaching. Classics, Buddhist thought, poetry, and experience offer different approaches to one life, returning understanding to relationships, choices, and the responsibility of continuing to learn within circumstances already underway.

The work extends to wider product sourcing and realization, connecting specifications, cost assumptions, suppliers, and payment routes with samples, production, inspection, and delivery. An idea becomes executable as requirements, responsibilities, and records become concrete: whether samples meet the agreement, what assumptions determine cost, who performs each task, and when confirmation is needed should be addressed before money and goods move.

Journalism’s questioning habit now informs decisions about other people’s funds, risks, and commitments; the completeness and clarity of a report can change how someone understands an entire transaction. I regard commercial research as work that must account for its grounds, because accuracy, candor, and proportion about the unknown become practical responsibilities when others rely on the result. The distance from information through judgment to performance is where I want to work more deeply.

My father’s discussions of democracy and law, and a loss of liberty connected to public expression when I was young, tied rights to whether a person facing power can retain dignity, receive a response, and obtain practical help. Journalism brought problems into discussion; law asks me to connect facts, evidence, rules, and procedure so that a concern becomes a grounded claim capable of examination and challenge.

Now in my third year of law school, I bring those questions into training in legal research, litigation analysis, and writing, preparing for work after graduation and bar admission. I hold myself to investigating facts, explaining risks, and understanding choices in the circumstances of the person seeking help. A future law office will have its own website; here I retain the path from public concern and community assistance into professional training, and the responsibility I believe legal work owes to facts, procedure, and people.