Chapter Text
Have you ever heard of a taxidermied child? I find myself soundly lost. Even suffering is lavish at a time like this.
Is it only when the cast is broken does the mind bloom into colour? Light pours into my eyes, drawn long into a baton-like shape, and a ball of paper crumples open behind them. On it, I put down stray thoughts and feelings that I could perhaps see only through a time machine. They fall like 바둑 stones in antifreeze, or petals in May. It is a terrible confession, heard not even by myself.
안녕히 계세요. You might even find yourself lusting over the same drivel you toss aside; it takes a certain wit to love what you hate most at the turn of a coin and…
It is worthwhile attempting to shatter yourself. Your pieces would be more sharp and distinct than the readymade maximalism of conglomerates you will never come to see.
Please, if at all possible, push away the 20th century from your mind. The spirit of Camus is easily lost in the business of a day before tomorrow. And when it comes to, should we let life sedate with ‘즐거움’ just because it’s reflected in the eyes of another? Warm upon my back, light is not implicit in the sun, and it burns. Yet don’t seek inferno. I pick at the embers.
I tell you this in hopes you will not be angry at me. I tell you this…
Melancholy is an expression of a ‘성질’. (I’m not sure if it is just facets of this 성질 which I find myself pointing out.) When this 성질 festers into being and entirety, that is when one ceases sight and way and it develops into ‘심술’. A fugue stupor may not be suppressed, I surmise, but instead should be split open and drained like a cyst or an abscess.
In view of my entirely ordinary experience, I goad myself into such a statement.
A corpse and a madman—among the billions swarming around me, is there any who is not masochistic? Pardon. Is it an insult, my theory that you are dead? 안녕히 계세요.
The structure of the house is like any other ninety-degrees off the road.
Here, they are lined up in neat, identical rows. Their shape and structure all mirror each other twice over. Differences are found only in colour and care. Though even that is not assured. Identities are built off of qualities and imperfections. All can be said to be artificial.
I suppose the same could be said for those who live within these houses. Here, they raise children. So that one day these children may have houses of their own. Still young, most of their time is spent chasing normalcy. Do they not already have it? I have not found mine, so I would not know.
The air is cut through only by the occasional rattling or rumbling or humming of a passing car. Those which pass by must see everything blend into a muddy mess. Those who stop most often find themselves lost in patterns.
The differences are what interest me the most. I look down and out from my window upon my spire and try to characterise each house as best as I can from what each provides. To my side is the edible one. Of course, the house in itself is not edible, it just seems to replicate edibility, if that even is possible. Porous and with a distinct rind, sometimes I wonder why it has yet to rot. The answer is always immediately obvious.
Past that house is another which is more similar to mine in character, at least from the similarities I can make out from my window. It seems saline in nature. In my mind’s eye I can see a shore just below its foundation. I can’t see well past that second house, so I roll my gaze from down the street to up against the horizon.
The ones further up are queer, only their brightly coloured roofs sticking out above the trees. From what I can tell, they vary only in colour, whether they have a chimney, and in quality. One house in particular is especially run down. The chips in its roof’s edges puzzle me. I can only wonder how they came to form. Sometimes, I wish I could speak to it, so it could tell me its story. Actually, not just the roof. The mundane stories behind objects fascinate me to no end. I wish I could speak to all objects. Nicks and scratches tell so much and so little at the same time.
My wish to speak extends only to objects, though. I speak to nobody. Except perhaps myself, but thought is equivalent to speech in the same way that trees are equivalent to paper. That is to say, not at all. Without semantics, that is. A conversation with myself is not much of a conversation as much as it is a long line of deliberation. I split myself into parts and try to smash them against each other so that a proper thought may rattle out of my head. At other times, I run words through my shut mouth until I am able to form a coherent sentence.
I do not have much opportunity to talk with others, anyways. No, perhaps I do. There is always opportunity to do practically anything. There is never a moment for someone to speak to me. I am seen by nobody, except in especially chance encounters which always end silently and abruptly. I do not leave my house, and my world is confined to one window and nine rooms. Though, very rarely do I explore the other eight rooms available to me. Apart from the one in my room, all of the windows are kept shut and shuttered. As for why, I do not know. Nor do I really mind.
My room is where I spend a large majority of my time. Not for any particular reason, other than that it’s where my bed is housed. The mattress lies on the floor, opposite of the door. I had a bed frame once. Though I don’t remember where it’s gone. Lining the rest of the sparse wall, with the window separating them from the mattress, are my bookshelf and wardrobe.
My wardrobe features only a spare few garments woefully attempting to split the space within. I wear only track pants and t-shirts. All of my pants are black, and all but one of my shirts are also black. I do not receive new clothes often. In fact, I have not received new clothes in quite some time. While I do not have any preference for black clothing, they seem to last the longest and to look the most passable even when never washed. So, all I am left with is a short series of near identical black clothing, alongside one white shirt. This does not bother me, though. My clothing is comfortable and thus raises me no concerns.
I used to receive new clothes often, but that was quite some time ago. That was due to my seemingly never ending growth. This growth was a slight yet constant annoyance at the time. Having to account and adapt to it was bothersome. That was around the time when I ate lavishly. Or perhaps lavishly is not the right word. I ate more than I do now, though that was not due to anything other than happenstance.
It was quite a while ago. When I was brought food consistently; several times a day, I believe. I simply ate it all, because it was a bother if I didn’t. I don’t remember why it was a bother, I just remember shoveling it all down my throat to avoid the annoyance. Now I am brought much less food. Sometimes none. I don’t care much for the change, because I’m never hungry. I have noticed that I have stopped growing, though. And that my bones have become more prominent. This is discerned only when I try to sleep, for I have to shift from side to side to ease the pain in my joints.
The bookshelf holds only two books. That is to say, there are only two books left. One is almost a complete husk, with more than half of its pages torn out, and the other is still relatively complete. That’s because one of them is a piano textbook, with coated paper, while the other was once a novel. The coated paper of the textbook bores me. It takes no shape but a careless mimicry of its folds, and yet it still can never return to its original form. It can neither hold down a change, nor discard of a crease. It cannot even tear properly. Thus, it is useless to me. Perhaps even less than useless. If I have any concerns in my life, they are in regard to this paper. This is because playing with paper is one of my main recreations.
I tear a page from a book, and with this paper I do many things. First, I hold it up to the sunlight pouring in from my window so that its words may show themselves to me in their mirrored disposition. I then try to read the words on the other side of the page through the side facing me. I have gotten quite good at this. I have been doing this for as long as I can be bothered to remember, so this serves as no surprise.
When I tire of this, often after reading both sides several times in this fashion (I refuse to read the pages properly), I move on to the destructive phases of my play. In my mind, I begin by breaking down the page into paragraphs. I try to derive their structure and purpose. While incomplete, each feels like a step, an isolated leap towards understanding. Then I split these paragraphs into sentences. I run their words through my sealed lips to feel as they flow over my tongue. Their pace arouses many different feelings within me. Most feelings are pleasant. Pleasant like the feeling of running my fingers over my laminated wood floor. Afterwards, I break these sentences down into words. Every word carries weight, though some more than others. From these words I gaze within myself to see what each word elicits from my subconscious self. I analyse the significance and subtext of each word, only to put them back together and see how these associations form the essence of the sentence, paragraph, and page.
Once I have meticulously broken the page down to its every constituent, I move on to the final stage. Sometimes I fold it in many queer ways. Other times I leave it as it is. Most often, I tear it into pieces. Almost every time, the ritual starts with raising myself from the floor; it is rare for me not to be on the floor during the first two parts of the process. I then move towards the window, most of the time just taking a single step forwards towards it, and I then throw the page—or whatever is left of it—out into the air beyond. I watch as it flutters in the wind in a million different ways. My eyes follow it for as long as it is within sight of the window, or until it touches the ground and rests still. From the moment it leaves my fingers until it has already reached far beyond my world and lay itself to rest, I am so enchanted by this short spell of transcendence that the disappointment of its landing almost seems to kill me every time. Truly, the most profoundly pleasurable part of the process is the act of destroying the page to then give it flight.
This, I have done thousands of times. From the moment I wake until the sun no longer gives me its light to read, all of my time is spent repeating this ceremony. When the sun has set, I then move to sleep. And thus my routine marches on for one more day. Other than this, there is little I have that could be said to be a consistent recreation. The scenery outside my window changes little, and no longer presents me anything new. And while my room was once more populated with belongings, they have all disappeared. I vaguely remember, in a half-asleep haze, seeing my mother drag out an appliance or piece of furniture while I lay in bed. This has only been a mild worry to me. I have found little use for all that which she has taken from me. After all, I have no need for anything, really. Some days, especially recently now that I have nearly run out of books, I let the hours pass as I simply just stare out of the window. On these days, I think to myself that I could survive in this room with nothing. It is not uncommon for me to sleep on the floor, so I really could do away with the mattress. And I change very rarely. I have worn my current set of clothes for what feels to be years. Thus, in an empty room, I feel I would find little change from my current situation. It is at times like these that I feel that my current furniture is in fact more of a nuisance than anything. I wish that my mother would come once again in the night and whisk away what is left within my room, leaving me alone in my barren paradise. All I have want of are more books with proper paper and my window. Even these, I don’t feel I need. In a dusky, sealed off chamber I have no doubt I would still find myself content. In fact, perhaps I might find myself more content than I find myself now.
Despite my near perfect situation, the human world which I have shunned for so long still seems to try to creep into my own little world. Once, a long time ago, it was my mother who would knock thrice a day, once for every meal she would bring me. These interruptions annoyed me profoundly, for they seem to always come far too often and always at the worst moments. My serenity would be shattered for food which I did not care for, yet it would find itself in even more peril if I had not accepted her white elephants.
That was not nearly as bad as that day, though. The constant sound of metal on wood would find its way up into my room and made itself unbearable all-throughout the hours. I could barely hear my own thoughts, and sleep would not find me for as long as it would reverberate in the walls. When it finally stopped I felt relief deep in my heart, a relief so cleansing I found it within myself to leave my room. This was the only time I had done so before recently. So exhausting was it, having to endure that pounding upon my ears and head, that I found myself hungry; the only time I remember being so. I do not remember the feeling of being hungry, though. Only that I was. The memory is from that long ago. I shambled out of my room and down the stairs. I faintly remember being afraid of heights once. Was I afraid of other things as well? I cannot remember. From the bottom of the stairs I made way to the kitchen. Though, I would not make it. In the living room was my father, hanging from the ceiling fan. I don’t remember what came to be after that. All I know is that following this a lot less came to bother me.
For a long while, my world came to a serene stop. There was no more knocking, nor any noise apart from the dull purring of the world around. Despite the fact I was left properly alone, my routine still continued off-sync of the world around mine. Mostly just because I had become accustomed to it. I still make use of the bathroom only in the earliest hours of the morning, before the sun has time to even approach the night sky. While this ideal state had continued for a long while, things have changed, both slowly and abruptly. The meals which I once found waiting for me when I awoke had moved just beyond my door, before disappearing entirely. This disappearance is the reason for my recent movement beyond my room. Alongside that, there comes an incessant knocking every so often. Thankfully, it comes from the front door, so it is not too hard to ignore; though it is annoying at times. What is perhaps most annoying are the periods in which the house has no power nor water. While I do not mind having to fast, the change in temperature is deeply irritating. My room, which usually composes itself at an optimal temperature–neither too cold nor too hot–suddenly finds itself either freezing or smothering. While never serious enough to cause me any concern, I still prefer the days in which the house conducts itself properly. Thankfully, those ideal days outnumber the unideal.
Unfortunately, I find myself in a period of these off-days. This seasonal unpleasantry is subsided by a seasonal pleasantry, though. As I reserve what little I have left upon the bookshelf, I turn my mind instead to perhaps my favourite pastime. The only thing to truly pierce through the still air of my room are the songs of birds. I watch these birds with rapt attention. They perch and move and sing and fly as they please. They are like the pages of my books if they never fell to the ground. Colourful. Dull. Small. Large. I watch the little birds form rows on powerlines. I watch the medium birds fly from height to height, constantly shifting their gazes around. I watch large birds soar high up in the sky, tracing an invisible circle in the atmosphere. In my tower, where nobody else can reach, my only visitors are the birds. Sometimes, I sit up against the far wall from the window. I sit so still and so quietly that, every once in a long while, a bird perches upon my windowsill. Mesmerised, I hold my breath as the bird snaps its head around on a swivel, as it lifts a wing to ruffle the feathers beneath with its beak, as its head bobs up and down and it sings its song. If I were to be anything but what I am now, I would choose to be a bird. But as my life is already perfect; it suffices just to watch. Though I do sometimes try to catch them. It is always a fruitless effort, after all they have wings and there is no way for me to lunge across the room in time to grasp one within my hands, and no bird would land within arms reach as I lean out the window. Despite this futility cutting my time watching the bird short, I continue to do so. The prospect of growing closer with these beings which I can only watch wistfully as they trot about the mundane is irresistible. There seems to be something implicit within my constitution which yearns to chase the contrails of such unreachable things.
It was on a day like this when I was hanging out of my window and the sun was high up in the sky. It was around the time where days drag on long and seem to muddle into each other. The whole air of it all made me want nothing more than to start work on a long nap. But I had just awoken, so such a thing would be challenging. So instead I chose the window. The air felt cool on my face and all was quiet. All that fell upon my ears were the rustling of trees and the whispers of the wind. Perhaps it was this exceptional silence that brought upon me an exceptionally rare occurrence. I had not set my mind on being especially still, and I had no thoughts of birds for there were none around, yet, all of sudden, on the crown of the roof below my window and within arms reach, a crow had perched. I had not even known I was in its presence until it had placed itself before me. Never had I even seen a crow before in my long time spent gazing from this window. For a moment, all I could do was but watch as its jet black feathers glistened in the sun. At first, it was facing me and my window. I watched as its head twitched around. Then, it locked its gaze squarely onto me and tilted its head. Was I the one observing it, or was it observing me? All I had known at the moment was that it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. It then ruffled its wings before turning its back to me. In this, I saw an opportunity I could not let slip. I steeled my resolve and moved to hold my breath, before realising it was already being held. And I lunged.
With a swift hop the crow slipped beyond my grasp, but it was already too late; I could not stop my momentum. Pain bloomed across the left side of my face as I rolled down the roof’s slant. In a futile attempt to regain control, as I fell off the roof entirely I extended an arm to grab it; resulting only in a rusty downspout tearing a large gash in its side. And thus my back hit the hard ground, with my head only narrowly missing the hedge in front of the dining room window. After a short moment, I moved to raise myself up only to find my right arm failing me. Placing my left hand upon it, it drew a distinct red line across my palm. Placing the back of my hand on my face resulted in a similar outcome, though drawing a ㅜ instead. Sat upright, I sighed and looked back up to the roof where I had fallen. My window doors, still open, shook and swayed gently in the wind, and from the sill the crow continued to gawk at me. Almost as if it had taken my place. Despite the unfortunate turn of events, I could not find it in me to hold any disdain for the crow. Without the need for careful deliberation, I knew that this was entirely the product of my impulsive and irrational behaviour. Almost seeming to pity me—after raising myself to my feet and lifting my gaze to it once more—it cawed and took flight. With a quick flap of its wings it had vanished into the air and sky above, and right behind it my window slammed shut—as if the crow closed it as it left.
I moved quickly to the front door. While unfortunate, I had no intention to dwell on my folly. I planned to return to my room immediately. Both to ruminate on my newly collected memories of the crow, and also due to the fact that the whole escapade had already worn me out. I had no issue with the brightness of the sun from my window, yet now without the darker corners of my room to retreat to, it came to feel quite a bit more irritating. I squinted and covered my eyes with my open hand, viewing the world only through my right eye and between my fingers. Eventually I had to drop my hand, but that was only once I had reached the door. With my shadow upon it and the doormat, the light was not so intolerable. What I did find intolerable, though, was the unfortunate fact that the door was locked. And that I had no key. I never needed one, for I never left my house, so there was no use feeling miserable over things which I could not change. With another sigh, I resigned myself to my fate and sat down with my back against the door; hoping only that my mother or father would return home soon and allow me back to my room.
And then I remembered that my father is dead. I thought to myself that never had I sighed so much in my life.
Now, a bit less disoriented by the bright sun, I open my eyes and look across the street, only to have my view blocked by somebody on the road looking back at me. At this, I tried to recall when the last time someone had set their gaze upon me was. I remember encountering my mother when I moved to use the bathroom, which was some time ago, but other than that I could think of no time that another human had me set within their sights. Not even from my window did anybody look at me. So isolated was my room that even in an eternity not a single person would see me looking down from it. Such was the absolute luxury the room gave me. Though, due to my extensive imprudence, I found myself deprived of this. I felt almost naked under her gaze. Speaking of her, she stood perfectly still in the middle of the street, one foot on the ground and one still on her scooter. Her pink hair flowed serenely in the wind, and her cyan eyes were transfixed on me, seeming almost shocked. And then she had opened her mouth.
“What the fuck?”