My Fish Tank Allows Me to Be a King; and I Did Stupid Things

👑 I Became a King and I Did Stupid Things

There’s something quietly sacred about watching fish glide through water—weightless, unhurried, unaware of the glass boundaries that define their world. When I first set up my tank, I felt like a king. I designed the terrain, controlled the climate, and governed the chemistry. I wanted my fish to live in pristine, breathable water—soft, clear, and untouched by chaos. I adjusted pH levels, let the water “breathe,” and monitored every parameter with the devotion of a caretaker and the precision of a ruler.

But despite my efforts, they died.

Not all at once, and not always predictably. Some perished in the early days, despite my best intentions. And strangely, when I felt the water had become too tainted—when I secretly hoped for a reset—they thrived. It was a paradox I couldn’t ignore. My desire for control, for purity, for an ideal environment, was met with resistance. And in that resistance, I began to see something deeper.

👑 Why Kings Do Stupid Things

This experience made me reflect on a timeless question: Why do people want to be king? And why, when they become king, do they sometimes do seemingly foolish things?

The answer lies in the tension between control and helplessness. Like a king, I built a world with intention and care. But when things went wrong, I felt powerless. That’s when irrational thoughts crept in—hoping for a reset, questioning my efforts. Many kings throughout history have faced this same paradox: the illusion of total control, followed by the frustration of reality’s resistance.

My fish tank became a micro-kingdom, and I its ruler. But true sovereignty, I learned, isn’t about domination—it’s about understanding. The I Ching, Freud, and Jung all converge on this point: Power without reflection leads to ruin. But power with insight leads to transformation.

🧠 Freud and the Repressed King

Freud would have had a field day with my fish tank. Beneath the surface of care and control, he might say, lay repressed desires—a longing for mastery, for certainty, for a world that bends to my will. The tank became a symbolic space where my ego tried to mediate between the id’s craving for perfection and the superego’s moral pressure to nurture.

The deaths weren’t just biological failures—they were psychic ruptures. Freud’s concept of the death drive (Thanatos) whispered through the glass: perhaps I wanted the fish to die, not out of cruelty, but out of a subconscious yearning to start over. To erase the mess and build anew.

🌌 Jung and the Path to Wholeness

Jung would see my fish tank not as a battleground of repression, but as a symbol of individuation—the journey toward integrating all parts of the self. The clean water represented my conscious desire for order and clarity. The tainted water, my Shadow—the parts of me I feared, denied, or misunderstood.

And the fish? They were archetypes of life—fragile, mysterious, and resilient. Their unexpected survival in imperfect conditions mirrored Jung’s teaching: wholeness doesn’t come from purity, but from embracing contradiction. The thriving fish were my unconscious saying, You don’t need perfection to grow. You need acceptance.

🧿 I-Ching: Hexagram 24 – Return (復 / Fù)

The I Ching offers a poetic echo of this journey in Hexagram 24 – Return. It marks the end of a dark cycle and the quiet beginning of renewal. Just as a single yang line reappears at the bottom of the hexagram, life returned to my tank—not dramatically, but subtly. The thriving fish were a return of vitality, a reminder that change often begins invisibly.

This hexagram teaches patience, humility, and trust in the rhythm of life. My tank didn’t need a reset. It needed time. And I needed to learn that resilience often hides in imperfection.

🧿 I-Ching and Modern Psychology: Hexagram 49 – Revolution & Hexagram 61 – Inner Truth

Hexagram 49 – Revolution (革 / Gé) reflects my secret hope for transformation through destruction. It’s the energy of radical change—the desire to tear down and rebuild. Freud would see this as the unconscious urge to purge, to cleanse, to start fresh. But the I Ching cautions: revolution must be principled, not impulsive. Change is sacred when it’s aligned with truth.

Hexagram 61 – Inner Truth (中孚 / Zhōng Fú) speaks to the sincerity behind my care. Jung would recognize this as the emergence of the Self—the integration of conscious and unconscious, the quiet power of authenticity. My tank wasn’t just a controlled environment. It was a mirror of my inner world. And when I acted from truth, not fear, life responded.

🧭 Where East Meets West

What struck me most through this journey is how modern psychology and ancient Chinese philosophy converge. Freud and Jung offer frameworks for understanding the unconscious, repression, and wholeness. The I Ching offers a language of cycles, archetypes, and transformation. Together, they don’t contradict—they complement.

In a world overwhelmed by noise and speed, these teachings help us slow down and listen—to our thoughts, our patterns, our inner rhythms. They offer a path forward not through domination, but through reflection. My fish tank became a quiet classroom where East and West met, and where I learned that control is not the goal—understanding is.

🪞 Closing Reflections

I became a king. I did stupid things. But I think I could do better next time.

My fish tank taught me more than water chemistry. It taught me about care, control, surrender, and the quiet revolutions that happen when we stop trying to perfect the world and start listening to it. Freud helped me see the shadows. Jung helped me embrace them. And the I Ching reminded me that change is always unfolding—sometimes in death, sometimes in unexpected survival.

In the end, the glass kingdom I built wasn’t just for fish. It was for me.