An essay written while listening to this song.
It’s been a long time since I opened my writing software. When exactly did I stop writing?
I haven’t read many new books, met many new people, or done many new things, so naturally, I’ve had nothing new to write about—or so I tell myself to justify the silence.
In truth, writing makes me feel awkward. I worry about being read, yet I fear being ignored. I worry that what I write is just an overshare of my inner world, that it might inspire someone, or worse, that it might disgust them.
The world is a vast, boundless ocean, and we are islands drifting upon it. We communicate and interact through the parts above the surface, while we live and move forward through the parts hidden beneath. Once I realized how complex, profound, and unique everyone’s hidden depths truly are, I began to fear the act of sharing.
Ninety-five percent of the world is moving forward, carrying their questions and their profound thoughts. Their islands are lush and vibrant. So, does someone who stops to think lack a trait essential for survival on the sea?
I’ve always considered myself a normal person, growing up in the usual way. I’ve watched those passionate fires, hoping they would ignite the light buried within me. But, in a calmer moment, I realize that even wanting that is a bit abnormal. A healthy baby doesn’t need a ventilator to jump-start their lungs. And so, I reluctantly admit: perhaps I just lack enough "passion."
I quite enjoy watching MediaStorm; they are full of passion. In last year’s annual review, Tim said:
Pessimists are always right, but optimists are the ones who keep moving forward.
So I thought, stop dwelling on those depths beneath the surface. Just move. Start running. Merge into the crowd, fit yourself into the mainland. Watch the sunrise and sunset, see the snow-capped mountains and the aurora, jump into the waves at the beach in autumn; work and marry, argue and compromise, repeat the same conversations every Spring Festival. Accept that as time passes, we will all eventually dissolve and sink into the abyss.
Accept that, in the end, the abyss is empty.
There are all kinds of people in this world, living all kinds of lives. Even when voices tell them they are being rebellious or eccentric, they keep walking, and they never seem to hit a wall. Yet, it’s hard to say if such a beautiful world is a comfort or a blow. It would be easier if we were like migrating fish or geese, told simply, "Go forward, that is the way." A world without a single correct answer becomes an obstacle. It feels as though I am free because I am empty.
Back when I was drifting with the current, the tour guide waved a little red flag in front, saying, "Next stop, university! The specific stops are in your brochures. There are many options ahead, so try to choose what interests you." People kept leaving the tour group, heading toward directions not marked on the map.
If we follow a set path, will we miss out on better scenery? But then again:
The most magnificent and extraordinary sights in the world are often found in dangerous and remote places where few people venture; therefore, only those with great determination can reach them.
Clearly, I am neither determined nor a follower of the crowd. So, I drifted away from the group, but I didn’t head toward the remote distance either. I just stood there, like someone who has lost their way.
Even this ocean is kind enough to keep an island afloat, even one that stands still. Though the waves urge me forward, the horizon is vast and boundless, and beneath my feet, there is only emptiness.
I’ll end with a line from the child’s essay in the movie Her Story:
So I no longer fantasize; I only think.
It’s a hard question to answer: does one fantasize first, think first, or move forward first? I hope that if I ever have a child, they won’t throw this puzzle at me. And I hope that before they ask, I will have already figured it out.