A while ago, I was feeling a bit overwhelmed. I wouldn't say I was particularly irritable, nor was I completely idle and anxious; it was that indescribable sense of emptiness. I was alone, flipping through files stored for many years, and as I organized my cloud drive, constant renewal reminders kept popping up. The more I did, the more vague I felt—despite the system running normally and the data being intact, that sense of unease just wouldn't go away.

Later, I realized: I don't truly own these files; at best, I am renting space from someone else. When the platform changes its rules, I have to accept it; if it shuts down, there's nothing I can do. Even if one day my account gets banned, those files will disappear completely. The feeling of being manipulated by others, the more I thought about it, the more uncomfortable I became.

Under this mindset, I accidentally came across a decentralized storage project. To be honest, I wasn't attracted by marketing—there was no overwhelming promotion or crazy hype on social media. I just happened to scroll past it while browsing emerging ecosystem projects. At first, I wanted to skip it because the term "decentralized storage" had been overused, but I looked a little longer, and gradually I found that this project was actually quite interesting.

What moved me the most was its restraint. It didn't have exaggerated narratives or claims of revolutionizing the world; it focused on a problem most people overlook: Where exactly is your data stored? Who controls it? Without backing from a central authority, can these data still be truly secure?

Essentially, what it is doing is dispersing risk.