The Silent Wellspring

For the Quiet, the Hurting, the Wordless.

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  • If I Am No Longer Here

    If I am no longer here, please know that I want these words to remain. No one needs to maintain the blog – just leave it as it is. The hosting is paid until 2035. After that, the Internet Archive likely has a copy. Thank you for reading. The water continues – not because I am here, but because it may help someone.

  • The Company of Silence – Part 3: The Unexpected Gifts of Solitude

    Besides, being alone does not mean you cannot have fun or enjoy life. There are many things a person can do alone, especially now that smartphones exist. Being solo does not automatically mean failure.

    In the days before smartphones, when I felt restless, I found ways to ease my mind: reading a favourite book, listening to favourite music, or watching favourite shows. When sadness or anger came, I would either drink a glass of water to cool my mind, or hide in a corner of the house and cry silently without anyone’s comforting words.

    With a smartphone, I have more choices when alone – reading a meaningful post, watching a movie or video, or even chatting with an AI companion.

    Offline, I can meditate, exercise, or simply clean the house to create a better environment for myself. Occasionally I meet with a few close friends, but most of the time I am with myself.

    I have also discovered that solitude, especially in quiet surroundings, allows me to journal my thoughts or reflect on my life. And when I am alone in a crowd, I can choose not to look at my phone. Instead, I sit or stand in a corner and observe the world: a bird chirping, a flower blooming, clouds drifting across the sky. Watching people quietly and guessing what they might be thinking can be strangely enjoyable.

    Over the years, I have become more independent and need less mental support from others. Being alone does not feel like failure or disaster – at least, I do not see my life that way.

    A New Question

    I have learned that solitude can be a quiet friend rather than an enemy. Yet one question remains:

    If connection is so highly valued by the world, why do we rarely ask whether a person might be more whole, not less, when they have learned to walk alone?

    This is the final part of the series. Thank you for reading.

  • The Company of Silence – Part 2: When Groups Do Not Fit

    Because of this condition, I usually cannot join group discussions in classes or conversations among small groups of colleagues during breaks. Even being with more than one friend is difficult. Each time such a situation occurs, I feel awkward staying quiet while others talk. Often, I end up leaving the group and staying alone – during leisure time, recess, or lunch breaks.

    I admit it may look strange or frustrating when you see others having fun, chatting and joking together, while you are on your own. Not joining any group may make you seem unfriendly. But what is the point of staying in a group where you have no sense of belonging, or where building that sense is nearly impossible?

    Is belonging something we find, or something we create inside ourselves?

    Continue to the next part of this series.

  • The Company of Silence – Part 1: Growing Up Alone

    I have lived with a condition since childhood – an anxiety disorder that makes speaking nearly impossible in certain social situations. As a result, I have spent most of my life alone, even when surrounded by family members. Sometimes I feel lonely and wish for someone who truly knows and understands me.

    As a child, when I was alone, I played by myself. I kept things to myself because I did not know who to confide in. If I felt sad, I would whisper comforting words to my own heart. As I grew older and entered schools and later the workplace, these habits followed me.

    If silence was my first language, what did it teach me that words never could?

    Continue to the next part of this series

  • The Map I Never Needed

    This is a personal story. For the distilled philosophy behind it, see ‘The Water Cycle Framework’.

    Living in awareness does not mean living in clarity. So far in my life, there have been too many unexpected events. I often do not know which direction my life is steering. For a while, I wondered if a certain dream was a hint toward some hidden path.

    But then I realised: life does not need a map. The end of every route is the same – death, just as water ultimately flows to the vast ocean. What matters is not the destination but the quality of the water along the way.

    Will my water remain unpolluted, nourishing the lives it touches, and eventually join the ocean clean? Or will it become polluted at some stage, poisoning others and itself – yet perhaps still have a chance to be sanitised as it flows, entering the ocean clearer than before?

    Whether the water gets polluted depends partly on circumstances beyond my control and partly on decisions within my grasp. And if it becomes polluted, my choices can still influence the extent of the pollution, how long it lasts, and whether purification begins again when conditions allow. That is why we say our destiny lies in our own hands.

    Water flows into the ocean, evaporates, forms clouds, falls as rain, and flows again. There is no fixed beginning or ending – only continuous transformation.

    In the same way, what we call existence is a changing process. “Living” and “death” are labels we give to different phases of this process, not absolute beginnings or endings.

    What continues is not a fixed identity, but ongoing transformation.

    Among all these processes, awareness arises in certain beings, allowing them to observe and realise this flow, while other processes simply unfold without such awareness.

    I once searched for a sign, a direction, a dream to follow. Now I wonder:

    If the water already knows how to flow, why do we keep looking for a map?

  • The Line That Saved Me

    Weeks passed as those around me began throwing sarcastic remarks in my direction. There were misunderstandings, but I could not speak to clear them. Every time I tried, my tongue felt tight. The words I wanted to say kept circling in my mind, yet I could not turn them into speech. I had no idea why.

    At that time, I did not yet know that I was living with selective mutism. There was no one to confide in about what was happening. I was not close to any of my peers. Telling a teacher felt like it might make things more complicated. My family was busy with work, and I did not want to worry them. So I kept everything to myself.

    Whenever the sarcastic remarks came during breaks between lessons, it felt as if knives were stabbing my heart. Anger rose inside me. Because I could not speak to defend myself, I wanted to retaliate by fighting back. I had some strength and had learned a bit of martial arts as a child.

    But I did not. I knew that if anyone got hurt, I would be punished – possibly even expelled. What would I do then? How would my family react? I dared not imagine it. Yet the situation was unbearable. A voice in my mind kept telling me there was nothing I could do to improve it. I was stuck. Totally helpless. So I wept in silence, alone, whenever I heard those words.

    As days went by, depression deepened. I grew more and more reluctant to go to that place, yet I dragged myself there so my family would not ask questions. Every day before stepping inside, I had to prepare myself mentally to hear the remarks again.

    Then one day, after another round of sarcasm, as anger and depression flooded back, a new voice suddenly appeared in my mind. It suggested that I take my own life.

    I was shocked. Without hesitation, I reached into my bag, took out a pen and a piece of paper, and wrote a single line.

    That day, the voice did not return. But whenever it came again, that line followed close behind it.

    I do not know why that line came to me. I do not know what would have happened if I had not written it.

    A New Understanding

    Looking back, I realise that the line was not a solution. It was a pause – a small, stubborn pause carved into the middle of despair. It did not fix anything, but it broke the moment just enough for something else to enter: a breath, a doubt, a question.

    And that leads me to the question that still lingers:

    If one line, written in desperation, can hold back the darkest tide for even a moment – what other small, simple acts of stubbornness might we learn to reach for before the wave crashes?

  • That Night

    One late evening, I was relaxing and watching a screen with a loved one. Suddenly, a friend began sending me text messages about her suicidal thoughts.

    At first, I was shocked. I did not know how to respond.

    As I read her words, I could sense that she was deeply depressed and agitated. The tone sounded as if she might vanish from this world at any moment. I did not dare ignore the messages. I did not alert the person beside me – I did not want to frighten them.

    The screen was still playing. Occasional comments came from the loved one next to me. But I tried hard to concentrate on every word my friend wrote. It felt as though my breath had stopped, and my heart was beating fast throughout. I lost all sense of time. I was fully absorbed in reading her messages and thinking how to reply.

    Whenever she said something self‑demeaning, my instinct was to immediately counter it. I wanted her not to feel unworthy of living.

    Frankly, I was not sure what exactly to say. I could only try my best to offer whatever positive words I thought might dissuade her from taking her own life. I did not use a commanding voice. I did not order her to stop. I did not reprimand her for being unable to think positively. I knew that at that moment, she could not control her thoughts. So I simply stayed online and accompanied her, unable to foresee how the situation would develop or end.

    Eventually, she stopped sending messages. I worried about what had happened to her. I thought of calling her to ask about her condition, but I did not – I did not even know where she was when she sent those messages. I could only sense that she was alone.

    After waiting for some time with no further word, I went to bed. I was physically and emotionally drained.

    Early the next morning, she sent a message. She told me she had gone to sleep the previous night. She thanked me for my company. I breathed a sigh of relief.

    I was not sure if I had done the right thing. I only knew that I had done my best.

    A New Understanding

    That night taught me something I had not fully understood before. Saving someone does not always require knowing the perfect words or having a clear plan. Sometimes it requires only presence – imperfect, anxious, wordless presence. And presence, even when unsure, can be enough to hold someone through the dark until morning.

    Yet one question still lingers, not as doubt but as an open door:

    If presence alone can be enough, why do we so often believe we need to be certain, eloquent, or perfectly wise before we dare to stay?