Sitting comfortably. Window seat. I watched a strange, yet hauntingly familiar, landscape whizzing by, only interrupted by the abrupt groaning of the air-pressurized doors as the Japanese bullet train, more properly known as the Shinkansen, barreled through countless tunnels burrowed through hills and mountains alike to keep the tracks on a plane designed for high speeds. Ninety minutes into a three-hour ride, the novelty started to shape-shift as the window frame took on the character of a mirror, into which I stared intensely as a meditative state settled over me.

Unless in the first-class Green Car with its elegant lighting, the bright yet diffused lighting in the long interconnected carriage cars illuminates a kind of hushed tone that mirrors my own internal stillness. Around me, I noticed the others—business professionals mostly—laptops open, making last-minute changes to presentations, catching up on emails, or cramming a PDF, as they traveled to customer locations or field offices.

A large second population of elderly travelers, perhaps reminiscing on their country’s beauty, shared an unspoken appreciation I felt too, reminding me that time, like this train, relentlessly pierces the future at a rate that propels me to fully live every moment of the day.

Depending on the season, adult children visit their elders in parts of the country largely abandoned by the working class due to the lack of desirable jobs outside the major city centers. Witnessing from afar a sliver of their struggle stirred my thoughts on distance and what intimacy means beyond the sharing of pillows.

The occasional groups of students on field trips, a smattering of international tourists, and lovers draining their bank accounts in the hopes of maintaining long-distance relationships with frequent Shinkansen rides—because the distance keeping them apart is too far for other fine, more affordable transportation options that simply aren’t fast enough for their days off.

All these scenes of familiar life experiences, among a people and language in which I am a stranger, all in motion, punctuated by impeccable details woven throughout.

Jackets hung. Phones out. Gifts and packages stowed. Many trays lowered to enjoy one of the delicious bento boxes sold at the station, specifically designed for the Shinkansen dining experience. A bottle of tea for me, stronger drinks for those so inclined. A rare local variation of a traditional Japanese sweet. These simple, everyday rituals of high-speed travel became a part of me, settling me into its embracing rhythms. Truly, one of my happy places—the Shinkansen.

Mt. Fuji, or better said by the Japanese who bestow the proper amount of respect, Fuji-sama, has been ever-present for well over a thousand years of travelers along Japan’s busiest travel corridor. Wisps of clouds stand as lookouts for Fuji-sama, whose majesty inspires and commands my attention to humble itself and focus the quality of my own internal thoughts, just as Fuji-sama has done for countless travelers before me.

Alone in my isolation as a solo traveler, illiterate to the written characters and words floating by in the air—that’s when I heard them: the voices in my head.

As the voices surfaced, I realized something unsettling—I didn’t author that thought; that voice was from a friend on their own journey. I didn’t author that other thought either; it was voiced by a frenemy. Wow, what’s with all these other thoughts I didn’t originate? All voices of strangers, enemies, and influence peddlers.

My world. My life. Everything changed in that moment—I felt it. I struggled to find the original thoughts I was living by. The difficulty in hearing my own voice suddenly explained so much—why shedding the costume of a young man for a man’s attire had been such a challenge.

The sounds of the train, the people, the world outside—all of it faded into background music as I turned my full attention to these unwelcome voices. The movement of the Shinkansen mirrored the swift realization that I had carried far too many of these foreign thoughts for far too long. Ever since then, life has become a dedicated practice of regularly auditing the voices in my head. Those not serving a purpose are banished. The voices of others are allowed to stay by invitation only, though there are still plenty of ruminations about why I’m not better at this practice by now.

When my nephew, a young man with so many troubling voices trespassing in his mind, came to visit me in Japan, I could see the weight of his internal struggle in his eyes—a heaviness that he didn’t seem to understand or know how to escape. He was at a crossroads, overwhelmed by decisions and influences that weren’t his own, just as I had been. One of the first things we had him do was travel Japan via Shinkansen on the JR Rail Pass, to at long last sit in silence, in the hopes he would hear the voices of trespassers in his mind. I hoped the speed and stillness of the Shinkansen would do for him what it had done for me—give him clarity, help him realize which thoughts were truly his, and give him the strength to separate the unwanted voices from his own. His journey, like mine, was not about the destinations along the way but about reclaiming his sense of self in the quiet spaces in-between. From there, he would know what to do.

Mr. O’Donohue’s “The dream of silence is music” is, on its face, profoundly beautiful. Upon reflection, while writing this essay, I hear those words anew. We should not fear silence—it is a refuge, giving us the space to fill our minds with the music of thoughts we cherish, rather than those we dread or labor under.

If you were to look into my eyes, deep into my soul, you’d see the emotion of that formational Shinkansen zen moment, visualized in this week’s photograph, captured during another high-speed zen moment as I pondered what the next chapter of my life ought to be. Fortunately, I was aware enough to photograph the moment.

And now… know the photograph.