sol.ace_r

After my experience in the abyss, I began moving upward again—slowly, painfully—toward the light. As I escaped the deep darkness and crushing pressure of the abyss, my body felt slightly lighter, yet it was still heavy. It was as if the cold of the abyss remained deep within me. The higher I rose, the darkness around me thinned little by little, though only a faint blue glow lingered. From far away, the noise of the restless sea began to reach me, barely audible. At first, the sound felt unfamiliar, but soon it stirred a familiar sense of unease. The thought of returning there frightened me, yet the faint song I had heard in the abyss continued to guide me. Even as the noise of the restless sea grew closer, that song could still be heard, however faintly.

At last, I returned near the surface of the restless sea. Massive waves surged, and countless whales swam fiercely, each at their own pace. The same scene as before. And yet, everything felt different to me. It was as if meeting myself in the abyss, and the fragments of the lost song I had heard there, had changed my eyes and ears. The world was the same as it had always been, but I felt that I was no longer the same. Still, that difference did not seem welcome in the restless sea.

I was still struggling. No—perhaps I was struggling even more than before I had sunk into the abyss. The reality of the restless sea was merciless. Other whales continued to surge forward in fierce competition, the world remained loud and indifferent to me. Each time I watched their speed and unhesitating movements, a wave of helplessness washed over me again. Why can’t I be like them? The question circled endlessly in my mind. Though I had escaped the abyss, the pressure of the restless sea now weighed on me in a different form. Before, it was my body that struggled to move; now, it was my heart that struggled to hold itself together. The gap between what I had realized in the abyss and this reality tormented me. In the stillness of the abyss, I had glimpsed hope for finding myself—but amid the noise of the restless sea, that hope felt unbearably small and fragile.

Trying to sing the lost song I had heard in the abyss felt pitiful. I gathered my courage and raised my voice, but the sound cracked, the melody wavered. My small voice was easily swallowed by the powerful songs of other whales, the rough currents, the noise of the sea itself. It felt as though no one could hear my song. Or perhaps they heard it and simply didn’t care. They continued onward at their own pace, singing their own songs. Some whales glanced at me as if my clumsy song were strange; others let out sounds that felt like mockery. Their gazes and voices seemed to say:
Your song is strange. You can’t sing like that here. Do it like us. Swim faster, sing louder—like us.

Each time, my heart felt as though it dropped heavily within me.
Maybe I really can’t do this. Maybe my song doesn’t belong in this sea. Was the sound I heard in the abyss just an illusion? Am I nothing more than a failure who can’t adapt to the restless sea?
The desire to give up returned. All my efforts felt meaningless. At times, I was seized by the urge to sink back into the abyss. At least there, there were no voices condemning me—only silence. Facing myself there had been painful, but at least I had been free from the gaze of the world. Sometimes I longed to return to the days when I simply surrendered to the current, when all I had to do was move without thinking. That had been easier, perhaps—because I didn’t have to face myself, didn’t have to look into the emptiness inside me.

But the faint song I had heard in the abyss, and the emptiness of having lost the real me I encountered there, held me in place. I never wanted to feel that terrifying emptiness again. I closed my eyes and listened inward. Even amid the noise of the restless sea, even amid the criticism of other whales, there was a sound—very small, but still there. The same sound I had heard in the stillness of the abyss. It seemed to whisper, softly and gently, unlike the noise of the world:
It’s okay. Go at your own pace. You don’t need to imitate the others. Sing your song. In your own voice.

That voice did not condemn me. It did not mock my clumsy song. It did not blame my exhausted body or my weary heart. It simply encouraged me.
You are you. It’s okay to do things your own way.
That voice was my only supporter, my only hope.

I took a deep breath. Cold seawater flowed in and out through my gills—the familiar pressure of the restless sea, different from the crushing weight of the abyss. And I decided. Instead of competing with other whales and being swept along by their currents, I would move forward by creating my own current. At my own speed, in my own direction. It was not an easy decision. I was still afraid, still lonely. I could feel the gazes of other whales, their indifference piercing me. I had been taught that leaving the group was dangerous—that straying from the prescribed path could lead to being lost, to danger. But I no longer wanted to lose the real me. I didn’t want to return to the terrifying emptiness I had felt in the abyss. I wanted to find my song. I wanted to find the reason for my existence. I wanted to live in my own way.

As I began to move at my own pace, things I had never noticed before came into view.
Landscapes I had once rushed past while moving without rest. Scenes of the world I could never have known when I ran forward with my eyes fixed only on a distant goal. The beauty of nameless corals blooming in the deep sea. The intricate, delicate structures of coral reefs close enough to touch if I reached out. The shimmer created by schools of tiny, colorful fish. The way they moved together felt like a free dance—so different from the relentless swimming of the whales in the restless sea. The mesmerizing patterns of light rippling as sunlight poured through the surface above. Beams of light spilling down into the darkness, like stairways descending from the sky. At times, I discovered mysterious life hidden among the rocks—small and fragile beings, yet surviving this harsh sea in their own ways. They seemed uninterested in the race of the restless sea, living peacefully within their own worlds. These were small beauties I could never have felt while rushing endlessly forward. The world was not made up only of the restless sea and other whales. So many different forms of life were living, each in their own way. Their very existence seemed to tell me the value of difference.
As if saying, You, too, can live in your own way.

I continued trying to sing my lost song. Within my own current, slightly removed from the noise of other whales, my small voice felt a little easier to hear. At first it was clumsy and awkward, but I realized that the very act of recalling the melody and letting my voice out was a process of slowly rediscovering the outline of my true self. Each time I sang, the faint sound I had heard in the abyss seemed to grow a little clearer. Whenever I felt my voice resonate within my body, it was as if I were confirming once again that I was alive—that I existed as me. Sometimes the song would break off, sometimes the pitch would falter, but I did not stop. It was my song. It didn’t need to be perfect, my inner voice told me. What mattered was not perfection, but the act of making my own sound—of giving voice to my own feelings.

Other whales remained indifferent to me. Some looked at me as if I were strange; others let out sounds that felt like mockery. There were moments when their gazes and the surrounding noise made me waver.
Am I doing something wrong? In this sea, do I have to become like them?
I wondered. Having left the group, I may have looked weak. I may have seemed like a whale falling behind. Their eyes seemed to say, You’re wrong. But the realization I had gained in the abyss, and the voice within me, held me steady. I no longer wanted to measure myself by their standards. I didn’t want to join their race. I didn’t want to lose myself just to keep up with their speed. Whatever they thought of me was their concern, not mine. My worth was not something to be decided by their gaze.

I moved forward at my own pace, carving my own current. Sometimes slowly, sometimes quickly. Sometimes into deeper waters, sometimes toward the shallows. I strayed from prescribed routes and headed where I wanted to go—guided by curiosity, guided by my inner voice. Along the way, I encountered unexpected difficulties. I was swept into unfamiliar currents, faced dangerous predators, nearly lost my way more than once. The unpredictability of the restless sea remained. But each time, I trusted the strength within me and pressed on. It was a strength I had never felt when I simply surrendered myself to the flow. This was a journey shaped by my own choices. And within it, I was growing stronger—learning how to summon courage even in fear, learning how to find my own compass when I lost my way.

In this arduous yet meaningful journey—moving at my own pace, singing my own song—I was becoming steadier, more whole. The path toward finding my true self was long and difficult, but I did not give up. Amid the gazes and indifference of other whales, I continued forward, guided by my inner voice—an exhausting yet meaningful journey of walking my own path. That was my present. I had not yet fully reclaimed my lost song, but I was moving toward it, cutting through the water with my own current. I did not know what awaited me at the end of this path. But I was no longer afraid. I was beginning to understand that what mattered was not the destination, but the process itself—moving at my own pace, singing my own song. The waterway shaped by my own passage. Along that path, I was moving forward—toward myself.