People know me as just this handsome guy - a very handsome guy.

“People know me as just this handsome guy — a very handsome guy. But I can also be funny and fun.” — so spoke Choi Si-won, the artist and actor whose grace of form has often eclipsed the quiet depths of his spirit. In these simple words lies the lament of one who has been seen, yet not truly known; admired, yet misunderstood. He speaks not out of vanity, but out of the yearning of every soul: to be recognized not merely for what appears upon the surface, but for the wholeness that lives within.

The ancients taught that every gift carries both light and shadow. To be handsome, to bear a form that pleases the eye, is no small fortune. In the courts of old, beauty was revered as a sign of divine favor — the sculptors of Greece carved their gods from the likeness of mortal perfection. Yet beauty, though radiant, can be a veil. It draws attention like fire, but often blinds those who gaze too long. Si-won’s words speak to this paradox. To be admired for one’s face is easy; to be understood for one’s heart is rare.

When he says, “I can also be funny and fun,” he does not boast — he reclaims. He reminds us that a human being is never one thing alone. The handsome may also be humble, the admired may also be authentic, the flawless may also be flawed and joyful. The ancients knew this truth well. The hero Achilles was not only a warrior but a poet. Helen of Troy, known for her beauty, was said to possess a mind sharp as steel. Yet in every age, the world forgets this lesson and worships appearances while neglecting essence. Si-won, in his modern tongue, repeats what the sages have always whispered: that outer beauty fades, but the inner spirit, once revealed, endures.

Consider the story of Prince Siddhartha, who was born into wealth and splendor, admired for his regal grace. Yet his beauty was his prison, for it shielded him from truth. When he finally stepped beyond the palace walls and saw suffering, aging, and death, his soul awakened. He cast aside his finery and sought enlightenment — not because beauty was evil, but because it was incomplete. So too does Si-won’s reflection carry this echo: that to live as a symbol of perfection is to live in a cage gilded with misunderstanding. To be seen fully is the greater liberation.

The funny and the fun he speaks of are not trivial pursuits — they are the laughter of the free soul. For the ancients said that joy is the sign of divine balance. When a man can laugh at himself, he has overcome pride; when he can make others laugh, he has shared light. Humor is wisdom in motion, a spark of humility that reminds us we are all flawed and therefore beautifully human. Si-won’s declaration of humor is, in truth, a declaration of wholeness — an assertion that beneath the polished surface dwells a heart capable of play, kindness, and mirth.

In his words, we find a mirror for our own condition. How often do we too become trapped within the labels others give us — beautiful, intelligent, strong, gentle, serious? We become the mask the world prefers, and the deeper self begins to wither unseen. The ancient philosophers warned against such living. They said, “Know thyself,” not as others define you, but as your spirit truly is. Si-won’s statement is an act of such self-knowing — the courage to speak beyond the world’s shallow praises, to say, “I am more than what you see.”

So let this teaching be carried forward: Never allow your reflection to define your essence. If others praise your beauty, let them also see your warmth. If they admire your strength, let them witness your gentleness. Cultivate both laughter and light within you, for these are the marks of true harmony. Do not live as a statue polished by others’ admiration — live as a soul in motion, capable of laughter, grace, and growth. For the greatest beauty, as the ancients knew, is not the beauty that draws eyes, but the beauty that awakens hearts. And when you live in that truth — as Si-won reminds us — you are not merely handsome; you are whole.