Why I founded the Lost Aquarium?
I’m tired of purposeful relationships—the kind formed just because we’re classmates, just because we happen to sit in the same classroom or live under the same roof. Drawn together by physical proximity, we instinctively drift closer, slowly weaving a network of connections that were never truly meant to be. That, too, is fate, I suppose.
Among these connections, some form tighter bonds—especially those who share similar gender identities and happen to enjoy playing basketball (granted, a fairly common trait). Their link extends beyond the court, gradually permeating every corner of school life: meals, homework, classes, video games, jokes, banter… This extension of meaning seems so natural. One finds a role, a sense of presence in this vast ocean. Even on a physiological level, it’s enough.
But this kind of relationship makes me reflect. We spend our days and nights together, yet never think to connect on a deeper, spiritual level. Physical contact grows more frequent, but the emotional distance remains carefully polite. We deliberately steer clear of each other’s struggles and frustrations, choosing only to resonate over things that produce dopamine. That makes it purposeful. But in another sense, it’s purposeless. In the beginning, we came together with no intention—just seeking belonging in a school setting.
Eventually, the question we asked each other most became: “What should we eat today?”
Somewhere along the way, we fell into a habit of being together—not really knowing why. We feel secure when we’re gathered, and when someone’s missing, we instinctively wonder where they went. Perhaps this is the portrait of a clique. At our school, cliques are everywhere. They almost always form around one or two shared interests, or a kind of consensus. These anchors become the language and symbols of the group. Over time, they become taboo to outsiders—unspeakable things. To comment on them, even positively, is to become someone else’s topic of gossip. And when outsiders begin to speak the inner language, it inadvertently nourishes the group’s exclusivity.
To avoid becoming the subject of idle chatter, we start to wear masks—masks that signify harmony as we drift from one group to another. Without these masks, you wouldn’t have the courage to greet someone in the school’s narrow corridors, nor would you be plagued by the tiny dilemma of whether to say hello or not. You’d soon realize that in this small campus, everyone knows everyone else’s name. But the most common relationship between people ends right at the threshold of “Should we add each other on WeChat?”
To put it simply: many names, few cores.
This unspoken consensus haunts the school like an invisible rule. We might not consciously acknowledge it, but we all sense it clearly.
This is a field—a social field. And those within it are expected to follow its rules.
Of course, behaviorally, you comply.
But—who says we can’t create a new field?
That’s what The Lost Aquarium is—a brand new field.
And I am its curator. Everything inside—every event and every activity—is ruled by me.
By day, I wear my mask too, of course—to adapt to the heat, the sweat, the burning sun.
But at night, beneath the shimmering blue lights of the aquarium, another side of me is revealed.
This is the real me, home to the clumsiest language system and my most unfiltered thoughts.
You could say this place is pure—pure because there’s only me.
So pure that your every visit becomes a secret exhibit in the vault of this aquarium, unlockable only with a time capsule.
Yet it is also a space full of relationships—every visitor who walks in brings a heart filled with curiosity toward the curator and the exhibits. And just like me, they are willing to open themselves up beneath this quiet, dark water. You don’t have to talk about specific incidents. You don’t have to mention exact origins. Wrap it in a fairytale, present it on a table—and everyone will take a bite, sensing your state of mind, perhaps resonating with it, or offering their own perspectives.
Here, everyone can shed their everyday identity.
You’re just a visitor.
But at the same time, you might find your real self—the one free from the constraints of social labels.
Along the way, your awareness will extend—your senses will stretch to fill the entire aquarium.
Your pores will begin to open. You’ll start to smell the many layered fragrances of the space.
You’ll unlock new ways of seeing, and this vision will carry into the way you perceive real life.
In your interactions, you’ll notice the patterns of human connection.
And maybe, just maybe, you’ll realize:
Your relationships with others don’t lead to them.
They lead to yourself.
That deep, inward reflection will glow inside you—a strange blue light.
And you’ll see: there’s an aquarium inside you, too.
Once you know this, you might consciously begin to fill it with exhibits of your own,
Waiting for a day when someone else might visit.
And if you’re confident enough—or like me, arrogant enough—
You might even release public ticket information,
And welcome strangers to browse through your waters.
By then, the life of your aquarium will continue.
And your destiny… will come full circle.