I Linger Around Things From the Past
đ Nothing Changes Even If You Cry_Park Jun Essays
When I see books lying in the bestseller section of a bookstore, I somehow donât want to pick them up.
I feel a strange aversion to books that are lined up like medals, bolstered by recommendations from many readers, celebrities, and the discerning eye of MDs. The thrill is much greater when I stumble upon a great book unexpectedly, one I picked up with my own hands. Itâs probably that peculiar psychology of wanting to project a âIâm different, Iâm special!â attitude, rebelling against what everyone else is doing, reading, and watching. This book was no exception. It proudly lay in the essay bestseller section and was even featured in a drama, making it quite famous. So, I deliberately avoided reading it.
A few days ago, my younger sibling received this book as a gift and casually placed it on the living room table.
I opened it and began to read it with a light heart, though, to be honest, half of it was with a cynical attitude.
I was impressed by the poetâs thoughts and values, which were deeper and more profound than I expected, and I felt ashamed of my prejudiced self. The faint yet warm sentences in the book felt like reading a crumpled note from an elementary school classmate whose face and name are now blurry, discovered while tidying a drawer.
đ My Favorite Thoughts and Sentences
Even if they arenât the words of those who passed away first, I remember many sayings. âLetâs meet in Jongno, your favorite place, next timeâ were the words of an old lover I parted with on a street in Bundang, and âThere are no movies in Chungmuro these daysâ was the last remark of a former colleague with whom I naturally drifted apart as our connection faded.
Now I wonât meet them, and even if we pass each other on the street, weâll probably just exchange a brief glance and move on. So, these words, too, have become their last will and testament.
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I still donât know how I should live, or what form of life is the right one. However, as I go on living, I want to receive many letters. This is because letters are closer to affection and consideration than to anger or hatred. I believe that receiving letters is being loved, and writing letters is loving.
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But nowhere does anyone teach you how to wisely lighten heavy human relationships. Of course, I donât know a good way either. However, the temporary measure I choose is to turn off my phone. Then, I go alone to an unfamiliar city, find accommodation, and stay for several days. It would be better to call it an escape rather than a trip. There, I eat delivery food to get by and linger around things like past loves or past times when I treated people carelessly. I think about past events that didnât go as I wished and future events that cannot be achieved by will alone.
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âLife feels unfamiliar, doesnât it? And itâs hard, too, isnât it? The fortunate thing is that you get older. Life doesnât leave you alone just because you get older, but at least you stop tormenting yourself or harshly scolding yourself.â These words from my teacher were a great comfort to me at the time, and they became words I recalled in every scene of my life thereafter. Words that came to mind as naturally as the thought of a drink on a rainy afternoon. Or words as desperate as cold water the morning after a heavy night of drinking.
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I learned from Mr. Kim back then that good conversations are born when the time one spends speaking and the time one spends listening to the other person are harmoniously intertwined. In response to his questions, I spoke about my family history, love life, poems I wanted to write in the future, and my favorite music or movies, and even more often, I showed him my youthful recklessness and clumsiness.
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Indeed, I love such trivial and small things. The mountain turning white with snow that fell overnight, admiring the white mountain with a loved one, soaking frozen feet in warm water, taking a deep breath and saying thank you or Iâm sorry⌠All the small things we share are too common to list.
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The woman appeared to be suffering from the after-effects of a stroke. Half of her body seemed like spring, and the other half like winter. She spoke to the man about various things in faltering words, and the man readily followed her instructions.
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Just because I came to a foreign land didnât mean that the writing that usually wouldnât come to me suddenly flowed well. Moreover, instead of focusing on writing there, I was busy being wary of the unfamiliar environment and adapting to it. I also spent most of my time trying to find things I might like among the new things I encountered there and deliberately avoiding things I disliked.
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A few winters ago, I went on a trip to Jeju with friends. We met at work, but because our ways of thinking and generosity of spirit were similar, we quickly became close.
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Life was more truthful and concise than ever, but a sense of injustice grew stronger within me. It was due to the thought that my life was drifting further and further away from poetry and literature. The practice poems I had written almost blindly were not regrettable at all, but the thought that the time I had pushed myself and struggled in my early to mid-twenties was becoming nothing tormented me.
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However, I believe that some writings possess their own ability and power just by being written, even if they are not read by anyone. Like a wish in oneâs heart. Or like a determination made through gritted teeth.