Work Text:
I pace the halls of the Geomijul. Up and down, up and down. Seong-hui says that I'll burn holes in the floor, that I'll be too tired to stand at our meeting if I keep going like this.
Isn't it funny how she always seems to be right about things?
She tells me I'm like a dandelion, I drift and I cling, I'm lost without someone to follow. It's an apt comparison in more ways than one. A pale, pretty weed that can thrive in concrete jungles, between the cracks. An outcast thrown to the side, stomped down and cut out and drowned. She's good at making connections like that.
Back in the Jingweon, under Joon-gi Han's wing, I would read each night before bed. To broaden my horizons, so I could be eloquent and well-spoken like my mentor who could pluck the right words out of thin air and start fires kindled in sentences. Honestly, I was searching for an answer to an unknown question. I thought I would someday find the phrase that would define me and make everything click into place. Instead, I found more questions; ones that would make my stomach turn, make the ground shake under my feet, make every mask feel suffocating.
I haven't picked up a book since. I came to a simple conclusion: I'm whatever I need to be, be it a leader or a follower, a saint or a killer. I'm good at fitting into whatever molds I find. Whatever keeps my people alive.
I walk the rotting halls and I smile, because I could always relate to the Geomijul. It's soulless, non-existent, yet it lives and shines and thrives more than anything sparkling and untouched. The act of undoing reveals its beauty, the strength in its foundation, like the endless rings in a knotty old tree stump. It died and laid lifeless until someone hollowed it out and gave it purpose, gave it a new start — just like me. I'm a string in the spiderweb, a wire in the glorious electronic tangle. We're a light in the dark, a loving home and a haven of filth. We're hope in the face of harshness. It's easy to think about things this way.
If I'm only a tool, a name and a face, an orchestra of blood and bones with a rhythm to follow, then there's nothing wrong with me. I do what's expected. All of my parts align, there are no missing pieces. I'm functional; in fact, I'm perfect.
But if I'm human?
I don't know.