sol.ace_r

I awoke in the deep abyss, where not a single trace of light could reach.
Or perhaps awoke is not the right word. It was so utterly dark that whether my eyes were open or closed made no difference at all. A place where the very sense of sight became meaningless. The noise of the restless sea had vanished completely, and only silence wrapped itself around me—silence so deep it left my ears ringing. It felt like the end of the world, a place where everything had come to a halt. The sunlight that once poured down from above had disappeared without a trace, and no matter where I turned, there was nothing to see. Only dense darkness surrounded me. Even when I stretched out my fins, I could not see them. I existed here alone. In the restless sea, I had felt lonely among countless whales, but here in the abyss, the loneliness was one of complete physical severance. It seeped deep into my body like cold water, a loneliness that chilled me to the bone. It felt as though I were the last one left in the world—no, as though the world itself had vanished. No one would come looking for me. No one would ever know I was here. Forever.

My body was still heavy. No—this was a different kind of heaviness from the one I had felt in the restless sea. The pressure here was beyond imagination. A crushing force that pressed down on my entire body. Breathing itself felt difficult, as if I were trapped beneath a massive boulder. My gills seemed unable to function properly. There was a pain like my lungs were being squeezed shut. My skin was not just cold but aching, and my muscles felt as hard as stone. I couldn’t even attempt to move. I felt trapped within this darkness and pressure. My body no longer felt like my own, as if I had become part of the abyss itself, regardless of my will. In the vast darkness, I was nothing more than a single heavy point. Even the sensation of being alive grew faint.

Within the darkness and silence of the abyss, I finally had time to face myself. In the restless sea, there had never been room for that. I had been too busy moving forward. There was no time to think, no space to feel. All that mattered was preparing the next tail stroke, finding the next meal, following the next prescribed route. But here, I could not move. There was nothing I could do except think. And once I began to think, a terrible realization came crashing in.

I no longer knew what I had been swimming so relentlessly for. Why I had to leave that cold cave every morning. Why I had to search for food. Why I had to follow predetermined paths. I could not understand the reason behind any of it. Caught in the compulsion to move forward like everyone else, it felt as though I had lost myself. I could no longer remember what I liked, which colors once lifted my mood, which sounds had made me happy. My tastes, my dreams, my desires—all of them faded, then seemed to vanish entirely. A deep emptiness washed over me, as if I had lost my soul. I felt like a whale with only its shell left behind: a vast body hollowed out. In the restless sea, I had been nothing more than a moving machine. It felt as though there had been no me inside at all. My thoughts, my emotions, my will—everything had been swept away by the currents of that sea.

I was certain that I once had my own song. A melody unique to me, different from the songs of other whales. A song I sang in joy, one that comforted me in sorrow, one that became a friend when I was lonely. It was how I expressed my emotions, how I made my existence known. A sound that held my moods, my thoughts, my story. But now I could not recall its melody, nor its meaning. No matter how hard I tried to remember, my mind was empty, as if someone had carved that part out of my memory. The lost song. It was the loss of myself. I wondered if a whale without a song could still be called a whale at all—just a massive body, alive yet not truly living. Breathing, without knowing why it breathes. Existing, without knowing the reason for its existence.

In the darkness of the abyss, I endlessly questioned myself.
Who am I?
What do I want?
Why do I exist?
Why did I swim so desperately, without rest?
What did I believe lay at the end of it all?
What was the true shape of that fear—the fear that stopping meant being cast aside?

But no question yielded an answer. I was merely a whale that swam without rest. Beyond that, it felt as though nothing of me existed. Perhaps the reason I had pushed myself so fiercely in the restless sea was because I was afraid to face myself. Afraid that the moment I stopped, I would see just how empty I was. Afraid of realizing how meaningless my existence felt. And so I never stopped—I just kept fleeing forward, away from myself.

At times, the silence of the abyss felt like comfort. A place free from the noise and pressure of the restless sea. A place where I didn’t have to do anything—where simply existing was enough. A place without expectations, without demands, without comparison or competition. A place where there was only darkness and me. In that stillness, I felt a brief sense of peace. But that same stillness also pushed me into deeper despair. To be able to do nothing was the same as being able to do nothing at all. And that felt like the disappearance of any reason for my existence.
Why am I here?
Why am I still breathing?
Perhaps letting myself fade away into this darkness forever would be the better choice.

It was exhausting—so exhausting that I wanted to give up everything. The temptation to fall asleep in the darkness and remain there forever pressed in on me with force. The relentless fatigue of the restless sea, the helplessness born from comparing myself to other whales, the loneliness of being left alone… If I could escape all of it, the thought of simply disappearing didn’t seem so terrible. I didn’t want to hurt anymore. I didn’t want to be lonely anymore. I didn’t want to struggle anymore. I didn’t want to keep running in a meaningless race. The cold of the abyss seemed to wrap around me and whisper, It’s okay. Rest here. You can forget everything and be at peace. The whisper was so sweet that it shook my weary heart. My senses dulled, my consciousness growing faint. And just as I was about to let everything go, a sound—so faint it felt like a dream—brushed against my ears.

It was, unmistakably, a song. So small and fragile that it was barely audible within the silence of the abyss. Yet it did not feel unfamiliar. It carried the familiarity of something heard long ago—or perhaps something I had once sung myself. A melody I had forgotten, yet one that was undeniably a part of me. It was not a perfect melody. It was broken, blurred, fragmented. Still, within it I could feel emotion—traces of me. Sorrow, longing, and something like a very small joy, all tangled together. It was a sound unlike the noise of the world, unlike the powerful songs of other whales. It was my own—small, delicate, and fragile. And yet, more clearly than any other sound, it spoke of my existence. As if it were saying, I’m here. I haven’t disappeared yet.

That faint sound tapped gently against my heart, sending a tiny ripple through something that had long felt dead. Somewhere deep within my motionless body, a subtle tremor began. The tremor grew, spreading slowly throughout me. In the cold waters of the abyss, my body began to shake—just barely. An instinctive urge rose within me, telling me to move again, to follow that sound. I didn’t know why I should. Staying here might be far easier, far safer. What would really change if I returned to the restless sea? Perhaps nothing more than the same exhausting, lonely days. But it felt as though something important awaited me where that song was leading. A clue to finding the self I had lost. The hope of reclaiming my lost song. Within the heart that had been ready to give up everything, a tiny spark of hope flared to life. It felt like a small flame rekindling within a fading vitality. The flame was incredibly small, but in the darkness of the abyss, it felt like the only light there was—like a lighthouse showing me the direction forward.

With great effort, I lifted my body. The immense pressure of the abyss pressed down on me, as if a giant hand were dragging me back below. The current pulling upward was unbearably cold and heavy. My body seemed to resist my will, whispering, Just stay here. It’s comfortable. You don’t have to hurt anymore. The stillness of the abyss tried to hold me in place—the temptation of eternal rest. But the faint song guided me. It was so small, yet in the abyss’s silence, it was unmistakably clear. Like a melody played just for me. A sound untouched by any other noise, meant only for my ears. And it spoke to me:
It’s not over yet. You’re still here. You have to find your song.

Slowly, painfully, I began to move my tail. A single movement felt like the effort of a thousand. Every muscle screamed in protest. Moving fins that had long been stiff felt like torture. The pressure of the abyss resisted every motion. Upward—toward the light. Toward the restless sea. But I wasn’t moving because I wanted to return there. I was moving only to follow the sound of my lost song. It felt as though the song was calling me—telling me to reclaim myself, to sing again, to affirm my existence.

Once. Twice. At an agonizingly slow pace, I moved my tail. Little by little—only barely—my body began to rise. The darkness of the abyss remained thick, the silence unchanged. But I was moving. At the moment I had nearly given up, when I was ready to let everything slip away, it was that faint song that lifted me back up. It was a sound unlike the noise of the world—my own sound. It did not deny my existence. It did not condemn my exhausted body or my weary heart. It simply called to me, as if whispering, It’s okay. You can begin again. Find your song. That sound became my only companion, my only hope.

Leaving the abyss behind, I began once more a slow, painful journey toward the restless sea—to find the self I had lost. The path ahead was still long, my body still exhausted, and the darkness of the abyss seemed reluctant to let me go. As I rose, the pressure gradually eased, yet my body remained heavy. The noise of the restless sea began to reach me faintly. The thought of returning there was frightening, but my desire to find my lost song was stronger. So I moved—following the faint melody, searching for myself. From the edge of the abyss, carrying a very small hope, I turned once again toward the world. This was not a return to life in the restless sea, but the beginning of a journey to reclaim my song—to reclaim myself.