“Walk slowly, for a long time, to Paradise of Rumors.” (lyrics excerpt from ‘Paradise of Rumors’)
One of the quietest songs to move people lately is, unusually, very slow.
There are few trendy electronic sounds and no punchy hook. Instead, there is an old guitar tone and a voice that feels like wind.
It settles on the listener, very gradually, like late-afternoon light slipping through a window.
That is the story of ‘Bloom,’ an album by sibling duo AKMU. It has 2.5 billion cumulative streams on Melon, and a single track has appeared on the daily chart for 1,046 consecutive days.
Those striking numbers point, with unusual precision, to what people in South Korea are worn down by.
“After joy comes sadness —
it’s a beautiful heart. Don’t be afraid; sit and face it. It becomes a brilliant painting.
Your laughter, and your tears in harmony.” (lyrics excerpt from ‘Joy, Sadness, a Beautiful Heart’)
Listeners say the song makes them choke up. Some write that it comforted them during chemotherapy; others say thoughts of wanting to die have eased, even a little.
In an era defined by artificial intelligence, an intensely analog song is being embraced.
People now live in a time of abundance and convenience. With a swipe, they can watch almost anything. AI can draw, make music and even write. Algorithms analyze tastes and show what users are likely to want. Life keeps getting faster and easier.
Yet faces look more tired.
On the subway, people stare at screens. In cafes, at crosswalks and in bed just before sleep, they keep watching something. Bodies stop, but minds do not. Information overflows, while emotions feel increasingly dry.
Somewhere along the way, people lost the ability to simply be still.
Even rest is expected to be productive. Exercise must be logged, travel must become photos, reading must be posted as proof. Doing nothing is treated like laziness. Even a moment without activity can feel unsettling.
That may be why Seoul has seen a curious new scene.
Not long ago, Gwanghwamun Square hosted a “spacing-out contest.” Participants had to sit still for 90 minutes without looking at their phones. On weekends, the Han River has hosted a “sleeping contest,” judging who can fall into the deepest, calmest sleep.
It is funny, and also sad. Why would people choose to sit blankly in the middle of a city, or lie down by the Han River to sleep in front of strangers? Perhaps because they have gone too long without real rest.
National statistics show South Koreans’ average sleep time continues to fall, while the number of people who cannot sleep is rising. Students cut sleep between cram schools and entrance exams. Office workers stay up late amid endless tasks and anxiety. Self-employed people cannot relax even after closing their shops. Parents find time for themselves only after putting children to bed. Everyone is tired, but few can rest at ease.
Lee Chan-hyuk’s lyrics do not offer loud, easy hope. They acknowledge sadness.
“After joy comes sadness —
it’s a beautiful heart.”
At first, the line can sound strange, because many people learned to treat sadness as failure. Depression is something to hide, anxiety something not to reveal, and being shaken something that means falling behind.
But the song argues that sadness is proof the heart is still alive — and that joy and sadness were never truly separate.
Memories that last are rarely made of joy alone. Love includes pain. Youth can be radiant and anxious at once. A parent’s back can feel steady yet lonely. Summer vacation in childhood can be happy, but the evening it ends is often sad. Life holds joy and sorrow together, yet people may have been pushed for too long to show only happiness.
That is why listeners break down in front of the song: they do not have to pretend they are fine.
What deepens the impact is that the music was made by passing through real wounds. Lee Su-hyun spent a period largely cut off from the world amid a long slump, depression, insomnia and panic. There were times when her weight rose sharply and she could not leave her room. Her brother, Lee Chan-hyuk, tried to bring her back to life by walking with her, traveling and getting her into sunlight. They walked the Camino de Santiago and also went to Uganda for volunteer work.
‘Bloom’ is not just an album; it reads like a record made to help someone live again. That may be why the music carries a sincerity that feels rare today.
This is an age that tries to make everything efficient: fast answers, fast delivery, fast relationships, fast consumption. AI keeps reducing the time needed for tasks, yet people feel busier. In technologies built to save time, many end up losing themselves.
What people need may not be more speed.
It may be a brief, forced logoff: putting down the phone and watching the Han River breeze for a long time; eating dinner slowly with someone; listening to one song all the way through at night.
Turning pages until drowsiness arrives.
Walking for no reason and catching the smell of dusk.
That kind of old-fashioned humanity.
As the AI era advances, those moments may become even more valuable.
The ability to rest well, to be quietly alone, and to look inward may become a distinctly human strength.
That may be why people are looking for ‘Paradise of Rumors.’
“Walk slowly, for a long time,
to Paradise of Rumors.”
Perhaps people are not only listening to the song — they are briefly imagining the road that leads there.
* This article has been translated by AI.
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