Practical joker

Unfettered. Untrammelled. Free.
Enchanting. Indeed. Attractive enough to be unquestionable, admirable excuses.
Have I said I need more time?
Have I said I need to be sure first so I want you to leave me alone?
I have. I know. Just like some kind of spell.

I opened my eyes, I saw the things around me, no surprise, things are always there, whatever they are.
There was this feeling of agitation, vexation, surging into me.

'Catch up! You gotta catch up, you gotta run, you'll be lost, you'll lose otherwise.'
She shouted at me, as she kept running, following the things that I can barely recognise.

Say something.

Have I said I need more time?
Have I said I need something else?
I have. But what was it? What is it? Isn't is just an empty promise embellished with the ambiguous adjectives?
No. What is this? Who are they?

I should have sharper eyes. I should have a narrow mind. I should have agile legs.
Be sharp and narrow it down. Since you cannot do everything. Since everything means nothing.
Look at you, fixated, embarrassed, bewildered, confused.

Walk. Move.

I have too many eyes, yet I have only one brain.
I see too many things, I hear too many things.

Move. Say your name and move.
This space is not yours. This time is not yours.
People are queuing, staring at their watches, shaking their legs, talking, talking and talking.
Move.

Unfettered. Untrammelled. Free.
Don't give me too many choices. Don't say everything's up to me.
Sometimes I just want to follow whatever it is. Read all the instructions and do things what I'm told to do. I can do that. Of course I can.
Celebration of possibilities.
It doesn't comfort me. Uneasy.

Have I said uncertainty is beautiful?
Sorry. I lied. I lie all the time.

Have I said I'm unfettered?
Sorry. I meant I'm lost.

Skin-deep, deep enough

The language cannot penetrate your skin.
It's too visible, it's too heavy.
It's written in the same words, and it's like a kaleidoscope.
The messages and emotions are generated in accordance with the color of your eyes.
Same images are projected onto the retina, but it's your jammed brain and prescribed reaction that identifies the figure.
Logical? Scientific?
You gotta be kidding. Sometimes science is just a propagandistic tool.

What's to hide?
Come on, let's be candid. That patronizing tone is incredibly convincing.
Things that drag you down, things that bury your small body.
Radiation is not good for a healthy and sound society.
Boundaries couldn't be any clearer.
Step on the line, and you'll be electrified.

It's all there.
It's all written there.
But it cannot be read.
It's covered by my skin, which confines my soul, defines my identity.

My words are smothered, colored.
My words should be louder, bigger.
It's skin-deep, it's deep enough.

Mistaken, mistakable, mistake.

I shouldn't have said that. I should have kept it to myself. Predictions about amorphous things. When you're not sure, you can't share anything. It's not a secret, it's a process of refinement, to make sure, to confirm, because when it is exposed, you become scared. Very scared.

There's no hidden intention. People talk and they always forget. You say whatever you want to say. But just don't keep saying it. Just don't repeat it. Then whatever it is, it becomes a fact, it's fixed, it's adamant. You can't replace it. You don't want it, do you.

It's like taking a fall. Very pretty at first, then it keeps being tainted, eroded. You were proud at first, I know. It might be a compromise, it might be a negotiation, but whatever you call it, it's embarrassing. You never lied, but it becomes a lie. Funny how you can be a professional liar when you don't know the truth. What's the definition of 'truth'?

Devise some plausible excuses. Don't forget to laugh it off. Don't forget to give the impression that it's not a big deal. Don't forget to imply that doesn't mean that much to you. Unless you're screwed. Unless you're a mockery. It's called 'sanitization', 'extenuation'. Just to make you feel better. Be skillful. Everything's manipulated, anyway.

I shouldn't have said that. How could I? The grapevine is out of my control. It's always bifurcated. Two answers for one question are not valid. It's either the mundane, self-abnegating but comfortable silence, or this unsecured pride or confidence which is cacophonous.

Your damn pride. This is a backstage. There's no audience. Your freaking consciousness. Nobody cares. Nobody remembers. Oh, I forgot. Everybody remembers your meticulous mistake, and that becomes your innate characteristic.

I admit it. I can never be a good player.
But I shouldn't have said that, you know. I can't shake it off.
Maybe it's me who remembers.
Maybe it's me who needs to forget.
The only problem. My brain works in a mysterious way. I'm not talking about god.

Call Nietzsche and tell him that I'm dead for now.
Oh, then you would speak nothing less, nothing more.

Familiar isolation

Do you miss your friends and family?
Do you miss your school?
Do you miss the familiar footsteps, never-ending pointless refutations?
Do you miss the familiar, dreary roads that you used to take after having a long day?
Do you miss your old room, messy and packed with tattered books?
Do you miss the phone calls that you never took?
Do you miss the silly jokes and laughters?
Do you miss anything?
Do you miss everything?

Do you remember anything?
Do you remember everything?

The memories are framed. They are just pretty silent pictures.
The sign of maladaptation is accustomed. Nothing is new, nothing is old.
Things are just as they are.
It's only when the feelings like familiarity, comfort are attached, entangled.
It's only transitory but passable.

But I'm not as I am.
Keep swimming unless you want to drown into your abysmal cubbyhole.
Keep bumping into impervious friendliness.
Because you don't have to feel anything when you're in something, somewhere.
Because feelings will pester you, confuse you.

Nobody asked a question.
You're learning discrete mathematics.
An unidentified dot is to be omitted, to be dismissed.

This is your familiar process of isolation, longing for any kind of familiarity.

A room with no view

I locked myself out again.
I sat on the corner of the corridor, staring at the wall, for hours.
The staff finally came and she didn't know where on earth the spare keys are.
The one who might have the key would come in 5 hours, she said.
I called Locksmith again and paid 88 dollars for the 10-second-long operation.

"You always lock yourself out", she said.
I know it's my fault that I don't like to bring keys with me for a short cigarette break.
You need a swipe card to pass through the entrance of the accommodation, you need the card for the elevator, you need keys to unlock or lock two doors to enter your small room.
It's all for security, I understand.

I remember my apartment in Korea.
I would never bring keys. Instead of the electric door, I greeted the old guard. He was always snoozing, but he was always sitting there anyway. I press the elevator button and stare at the descending numbers wearing my headphone. Then I press number 5, get out of the elevator.
I press the doorbell. Within a few seconds, the door opens, it's either my mom or brother.

I didn't need keys with me because there was always someone waiting for me.
Probably, I keep forgetting this. Now I don't have anybody.
I've been living in dormitories for about a half of my life, but the accommodation outside my country is different. Maybe it's not the supposedly convenient technology that protects residents' properties. Maybe it's the absence of people on my way home.

How many keys do we have.
Why are we so obsessed with our own properties.
I couldn't wait for another hour, I was so edgy to open and get into my room, because I felt everything important, everything crucial for any kind of activity was in my room. Without them, I couldn't do anything, I thought.
Why can't I just watch kids playing in the playground like I did when I was in Korea.
Why can't I just take a walk, not thinking about my cellphone, laptop.
Why should I be in my room, why can't I be somewhere else.
Is everything in my room mine when the things outside are not.
I don't want to be naive. Sadly, I'm not the one who trust people easily, either.
I know we need a private space, a room of our own (like Virginia Woolf said).
But I don't like to bring keys.

I lock my door when I go out, I lock my door when I come in the room.
I open the door to close it, I lock the door to unlock it.
I stared at my keys.

We lock ourselves in.
We lock ourselves out, sometimes.

A dream

pic. Erlend Mork

I and my best friend are back from a trip.
She says she has to try harder, she's not good enough.
I smile and say "Relax. Just enjoy and everything will be fine".
"You just don't know because I've never told you. ", she says.
I say good-bye to her and walk down the street.
I'm smiling but I feel reluctant.

It's a murky day, I am heading to an old building that I'm supposed to take an exam.
In front of the building, hundreds of small kids are lining up. There are huge billboards that announce the winners - the first prize, second prize. Kids are clapping for someone, and I just pass them by.

I enter the building. I start to climb the stairs. It's very dark and narrow.
I reach the room packed with highschool, or middleschool students studying, preparing for the exam. Some lecturers are supervising. None of them, I can recognize.

I sit at the corner of the room, next to my friend, who died about 3 years ago.
She seems busy and nervous.
Lecturers start to distribute exam books.
I don't get one, but I don't care.
My friend and I start to solve math problems together with just one book.
It's cheating, but the supervisors don't care either.
But I can't seem to solve any of them. I just don't know the formula.
She's very good at it, she's very concerned at the same time.

They distribute another exam book for history.
I can't seem to understand any of them either, anyhow I guess them all.
I feel very confident about English, but only two simple questions are about English.
That's when I want to have my own exam book for math.
I raise my hand, "I didn't get the math exam paper".
One of the lecturers comes to me and says, "It's late for that".

Then I remember that I'm in the class for the gifted students, I won several big science, English competitions. Then I also start to wonder which grade I'm in. It really annoys me. I can't figure it out. Then I remember I graduated from the science highschool. I start to think I shouldn't be taking this exam. There's no need.

They release the exam result, and I get 'F'. I hide the result, I'm not embarrassed, I'm rather angry. My friend only missed one math question. She starts to cry because she doesn't get a perfect mark. I look at her, I feel estranged. I feel uncomfortable.
I sneak out of the room.

I try to escape, jumping out of the window.
I do manage to step on the ground safely.
Then, a couple of people call me urgently.
They are supporting my friend, who seems to be asleep.
"You have to take her with you! Everybody left her behind", they shout at me.
I just look up.
They dump her, her head hits the ground.
"What the hell is wrong with you people!", I scream at them.
But there's no blood, she seems peaceful and opens her eyes.
"I just fell asleep, when I woke up, there was nobody around me", she says, smiling at me.

I help her stand up.
We start to walk together. It's not murky anymore.
The sunrays fill the air, there's a small but pretty flowerbed next to us.

I've been wondering, frustrated to get the answer. Which grade I'm in.
Suddenly, I realize I'm not a highschool student, I'm not a student of my former university.
It is a kind of outburst, a good one.
"I go to this university and study this", I speak to my friend, looking and smiling at her.
"I know it's not what I've studied so far, I know this might seem like an abrupt diversion. It's not easy always, but I like it, I do, you know", I keep talking to her.

"Do you like animals?", then she suddenly asks me.
"You want to be a vet? That's great!", I talk to her, without a pause, delighted.
She nods her head, softly smiling.
"They say Australia is a good place to live in", she says, looking at me.






And then I woke up. What a long and weird dream.
My friend and I went to the highschool together, we were roommates, we were best friends.
A few years ago, she said she had a bad headache, then a few days later, she suddenly died. Just like that, things happen. With no reason.

What did you want to tell me? Why did I bring you in?
Anyway, it's good to see you...

mediocre epiphany

pic. Anthony Schubert

Then you would question how come you've come this far.
A familiar conversation, familiar expression, familiar feeling
with unfamiliar faces, unfamiliar languages, unfamiliar places.
You are standing in the middle of this sticky mass of impervious fragments.
Cement yourself into the right place.
Be careful, you might need to break it unless you fit in.
And that's when you start to think.
Just for a while.

You would be asked to show your ticket when you've been in it for such a long time.
Everything was changing, and all you can remember is everything changes.
pronominal expressions are no more than empty vagueness.
You start to calculate. You start to arrange the numbers.
You start to look around. You start to wonder what your intention was.

And then you think, you feel like, everything's going to be alright.
Everything's going to be fine, nothing's wrong, you don't have to agonize.
And then you feel like, you're doing fine.
There is somebody who cares about you, who loves you, who believes in you.
Just for a moment.
The moment of mediocre epiphany.
And the mediocre oblivion permeates into you.
Then everything's messy, you're screwed up again.

You need to cry harder, laugh harder.
To indulge yourself into that moment of epiphany, which will visit you soon after.