ON

I write in English because I feel too naked in Korean. Yet.

The amphibian part of my brain breathes Korean, and I don’t know if I have enough desire to try to change that.

Why would one choose to broadcast one’s feelings to billions of others instead of just quietly jotting them down in some hidden corner of one’s own world?

It happens when you’re entranced by the uniqueness of your own thoughts. And you can’t stop but start feeling proud. And you start seeking confirmation. After all, you can’t be unique by yourself.

You catch these fleeting thoughts, which, when shooting over the horizon that’s the inside of your mind, are like shimmery fragments of stars. Sometimes, though, up close, they turn out to be dandruffs.

Still, one loves one’s own thoughts. They smell so nice: the putrid sense of self. You immerse yourself in your thoughts like you frantically burrow your nose into an unwashed pillow after a harsh day.

And, emr,erm.

Here I am, siting here wondering about how I’ve become so pretentious. Why does writing make one so pretentious? Thinking doesn’t. Is writing inferior to thinking? Is it the incompetent little brother who hobbles after the capable bigger brother?

I put on pretense like how I make a certain face a split second before staring at the mirror. It’s how I brace myself before I see myself reflected on the surface of something—or someone. You can only see yourself as a reflection. I need pretense to face myself.

That was too much writing—all of a sudden. I doubt this will continue.

Good night.