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It was a simple conversation, something that shouldn't have twisted him up in the way it did. It was supposed to be inspiring. At least Seungmin thinks so. At this point he has no idea why he said it, except for the fact it was—is true.
He's in bed with some random hookup, one that told him about their big dreams for the future. The degree they are working on. Their ideal location and industry to work in. They have companies picked out for christ's sake. Everything about this person is meticulous.
"Maybe one day my name will be plastered in the headlines." He sighs, reaching out to the ceiling as if to pluck the stars themselves from the night sky. Seungmin wishes he has even an ounce of the dreams that seem to dance around him.
"You can be remembered." He agrees, staring at the ceiling himself, but not seeing those same stars, just ceiling the off white paint that needs to be retouched.The light fixture needs to be dusted.
He wraps an arm around Seungmin, "What about you?"
Seungmin isn't in his dreams, this should not matter.
"I was never meant to be remembered, that's not my goal."
"What is your goal?"
Seungmin didn't have an answer. He still doesn't as he pours his oatmeal into his bowl a week later, that same oatmeal he has been eating for months. While, actually no, he upgraded to the name brand instead of the store brand a month ago. He's really moving up in the world. He adds in his water, practically muscle memory for how much he needs. No one needs to remember his breakfast. No one needs to remember the amount of water he adds to make sure it's not too clumpy nor too soupy. If it's either, then he won't eat it—the texture is off.
What is his goal?
He's pretty sure he had dreams, once. Some very long time ago. He can quite vividly remember being asked what he wanted to be when he grew up.
"An archeologist or an astronomer." Those were some pretty big words for an 8 year old.
The gruff voice who had asked, responded, "Those aren't good enough, pick something else."
It's crazy to think that at such a young age he wanted to look for the answers to life in either the stars or in the ground. Now he just looks for the answers to mundane questions on his phone, google—not AI. He might not have many standards, but he will stick to that one.
mother cat with kittens
define avail
first season and last season of full house
lyrics to dark necessities
Nothing like the questions 8 year old him once thought he would be asking. Another memory surfaces, clear as the bowl in front of him is. The same gruff voice asking the same question.
He's older now, maybe 13 or 14. "I want to do something with computers."
A laugh, an actual laugh. "You? I don't think you're smart enough for that. Pick something else."
Where would his life be if he did actually pursue computers or engineering? While, actually, probably not good if it was computer science or anything that AI is now doing a lot of. Perhaps that was something good, to be turned away from computers to…to what? What is he doing?
His goal is not to be remembered which cuts out a lot, but not nearly enough. He has no desire to be famous. To have his every waking moment picked apart and scrutinised. To have people obsess over him to the point of stalking, or to have them hate him to the point of being fearful of his own death, either by their hands or his own. He can't do that. Anything that thrusts him into the limelight is a hard no. But, wouldn't he want to be remembered in some way?
Does he really want no one to know his name? For his gravestone to be bare and his body forgotten? Isn't that what it means to be forgotten? His name would never be uttered again, not coworkers, friends, family, or even the barista at the coffee shop. So is that really his goal? To exist as if he never has?
He tries not to dwell on it. He goes to work, comes home, bedrots, and goes to sleep. If he keeps himself numb or busy, then he has no need to know what his goal is. But that can only last for so long. Eventually, he has to think and think comes a whole spiral of his own being.
What is his goal?
Does he want to be remembered?
Is he even meant to be remembered?
What happens when he dies? Who comes to his funeral? Who will shed a tear? Who will share a happy memory, a sad memory, a memory?
He's tried so hard to just disappear. The forgotten text messages from friends that he can't will himself to respond to. Even letters have piled up. He archives an email that he gets. He doesn't go out and make new friends. His social media presence is nonexistent. Phone calls ignored. When the day comes, will anyone even say goodbye?
He can't change it. He's too set in his ways. It's hard to pick up the phone and respond to a text message from a week ago. What will they think? Will they accuse him of ignoring them? Will they think he has been too busy for them? What would be left for him?
So what is his goal? He hasn't come up with an answer. His goal is not to be remembered, but to also be remembered, an odd conundrum he finds himself in. How much does he want to be remembered? Does he want the shitty hookup to remember the way he struggled to get his buttons undone, a bit too tipsy? Does he want his friends to remember every time he has blown them off or ignored them? Does he want his boss to remember the time he spilled coffee down the front of his pants because got startled by someone hitting their desk?
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It's a mantra in his mind. Twisting and turning until it wraps itself around every stray thought and strangles it under its vise grip. The only thought that overpowers it is the worse one. If he wants to be remembered, then who is the person he wants remembered?
Who is he?