In Ted Chiang’s novella “The Truth of Breath,” the protagonist—a mechanical lifeform—dissects himself to probe the mysteries of brain function, all while documenting his experiences for future readers. During this process, he observes consciousness flowing under the microscope for the first time—and is seized by infinite panic.
Had I realized this elsewhere, I would have leapt from my chair and dashed into the street. But given my current condition—my body locked in a fixed rig, my brain suspended in pieces throughout the lab—that was impossible. I could see my turbulent thoughts triggering rapid motion in the brain’s leaf-like structures, which in turn intensified my unease about this state of constraint. Panicking at such a moment might well prove fatal: trapped in a nightmare-like immobilization, I might involuntarily twist and thrash against my restraints until I suffocated. Unintentionally—or perhaps intentionally—my hand adjusted the periscope’s field of view away from the grid structure and onto the workbench surface. Freed from observing and magnifying my own panic, I gradually calmed down. Once composed again, I began the long, meticulous process of reassembling myself—restoring my brain to its original compact configuration, sealing the cranium, and finally releasing myself from the rig.
Whenever I confront the landscape within myself, I likewise experience repeated surges of panic.
Dissecting my own thoughts—feeling ideas arise one after another, then vanish just as swiftly—resembles watching a turbulent sea. Often, it’s whimsical and pleasant: daydreaming about the future or distant places. Yet at other times, what surfaces is inner darkness. Not long ago, I read the Taishang Ganying Pian (“Tract of the Most Exalted One on Response and Retribution”) for the first time—and was nearly overwhelmed by the sheer breadth of sins humanity can commit. It revealed many malicious impulses normally hidden deep within, visible only when the mind grows profoundly still.
At first, I felt astonished: I actually think like this? I feared becoming a bad person.
But with continued observation, I slowly accepted reality: Yes, I do think this way—but thinking is not acting. As long as I retain control, that’s enough. These deeply buried impulses remain unspoken; no one has discovered them—not even I, until now.
Later, I began sharing these thoughts with others—and found immense relief in speaking them aloud. Perhaps this is precisely the purpose of the confessional booth in Christianity/Catholicism (I’m still unclear on the distinction between the two).
I’ve learned: the more you suppress something, the more violently it rebounds. Only by staring directly into the abyss does one achieve calm.
I’m writing these words aboard a high-speed train. The passenger to my left is scrolling on their phone; the mother to my right has just woken up. When I opened my notes app, a cascade of thoughts floated past: Will someone see me writing this? Will what I write seem pretentious? Will the person on my left admire me for it? Since I’d just been reading Ted Chiang, will opening my laptop without using it make me look like I’m trying too hard? Will my mom read this later and say, “You’re overthinking again”?
As I write, I feel them—and watch them, as if standing beside a river, observing bubbles rising from fish mouths: one thought emerges, then another—pop, pop.
Starting today, I’ll cross-post all blog content to my WeChat Official Account—no deeper motive than enabling ad revenue.
Also, my Official Account name is changing:
From “Xiao Bai Jin Hua Lun” (“The Evolution of a Novice”) → “Zhong Yi Shi Tu” (“An Apprentice to Traditional Chinese Medicine”)
- “Shi Tu”: literally, “apprentice” or “disciple”—a beginner at the outset.
- “Shi Yu Tu Bu”: also evokes “beginning with walking”—a nod to the journey of learning.
- And yes—it’s also a reference to the “Angels” (Shito, or “Apostles”) from Neon Genesis Evangelion. Those who’ve watched will understand; those who haven’t—well, maybe they should.