My name is Ren Yan. I'm 21. I just graduated from a film academy but I still live with my parents. I have no job, but sometimes I help a theatre company put on plays.

I grew up in the northwest part of central Beijing. It is an old neighborhood near Queen Lake (Houhai) filled with criss-crossing alleyways and one-storey, grey, brick buildings. The little alleys are called hutongs. These alleyways and the tiny, old houses that line them are parts of the traditional Beijing lifestyle and are known throughout China.

I first started to notice Beijing changing when I was 16 or 17. That was when Queen Lake started changing.

The first thing that happened was all the little houses around this area got the "chai" character written on them. ("Chai" means "demolish." It is painted on the sides of buildings that are to be torn down.)

There was something really strange about this. You would see a building with "chai" written on it, but the building would still be there for a year, two years, three years without being demolished. This "chai" character became a part of our normal lives, it became a symbol of the little Beijing houses. The two things, Beijing traditional houses and chai/demolish became synonymous.

When I was little the "chai" was pretty rare but suddenly it was everywhere. It became the symbol for our world.

Next came the bars.

There used to be nothing around Queen Lake - some of the little houses I've been talking about, trees and a path circling the lake. Some of the people who lived in the area used to go there to walk or fish, mostly old people. When it was dark and you couldn't see too far ahead of yourself you almost never saw other people there. I don't know if this is really what it was like or if it is my memory changing things, but it seemed like there was always a fog on Queen Lake.

The bars rumbled in one after another. I don't remember how long it took them to be built, but it it was fast. It seemed like as soon as one was done they were starting a new one.

Magazines ran articles about Queen Lake, about these bars. They all talked about how nice the new bars were, they all agreed that this was Beijing's new hot spot.

Now Queen Lake is packed. Every night the path around the lake is filled with people, the neon signs twinkling in their eyes. Queen Lake has become a tourist spot. In the beginning it was mostly office workers, younger people with a little money, that went to the bars. Now everyone in Beijing has been there. Foreigners find the lake in their guide books and come to have a look.

I hated the bars from the beginning. I didn't have a real good reason, I just thought they made Queen Lake ugly.

I don't know what other people think. I bet lots of them would tell you that the bars make the lake pretty. Maybe even some of the people from this area like the bars. They might think it's made the area lively. But I think they're ugly. They're not like the old Queen Lake and I liked the old Queen Lake.

Beijing is totally different now. All over there are new cars, more people rushing around the streets, and new buildings going up. Beijing has always been disorganized, but in the past that disorganization, that craziness, used to feel small and warm. The loud voices of people selling things on the street, children running past cyclists, lights coming from restaurants; that was comforting.

It felt like a bird's nest. A bird's nest is messy, it has no set pattern, but it's also warm.

Now Beijing is like Queen Lake, all neon signs and people running around in nice clothes. It feels like Beijing is decaying and has become overrun with shiny insects. Like the cozy old nest is being trampled by salesmen trying to sell you a newer, better nest.

And here I am, alone, wishing for the old Beijing. I'm not interested in cars or meetings or being on time. I know the old, warm, bird's nest Beijing isn't coming back, but I'm afraid I'll always be like this: missing the old Beijing and never liking the new world around me.

Yesterday, in the middle of the night, I was sitting alone thinking: if someone came along and could send me back to the past, before all these changes, would I go back?

I wouldn't. He would have to guarantee that I could stay in that time forever, that I wouldn't have to come back through all this again. Losing the past once is already too painful.

Ren Yan told his story to Sweeble correspondent Michael Armstrong, in Beijing.