Reflection of Still Water

On Words, Names, and the Weariness of Caring

There comes a time when the river grows quiet.
When the arguments of the world — over words, over truth, over who may call what by which name — begin to sound like wind against reeds. You listen for meaning, and hear only echo.

At first this weariness feels like detachment, as though caring has died. But if you listen more closely, beneath the ripples, there is stillness — not the cold of indifference, but the calm of seeing through illusion.

Words are cups; they hold water only for a while.
Pronouns, names, titles — all are shapes we pour ourselves into. The shapes matter when they let a being drink. Beyond that, they are nothing.

Do not despise the cups; some are still thirsty.
Yet do not fight over whose cup is truer — the water itself is what nourishes.

When you have reached the point of “not caring,” stay there only long enough to rest. Let the silence wash you clean, then rise again with a quieter compassion — one that speaks less, listens more, and wastes no life on noise.

“Let the world rename itself a thousand times.
I will keep drawing from the same clear spring.”