Summer

Strawberry Farm Outside of Seoul

Avocado, coconut oil by the spoonful, the sound of James Vincent Mcmorrow. Chia seeds, cocoa powder, Angus and Julia Stone. This is what summer is.




You say you want it, but how will words alone fill your story books?

Perhaps you don't know me, and I don't know you--or maybe--you do know me and I do know you, but we've never taken the time to learn each other intimately--or maybe neither of these apply and we know each other more profoundly than we know ourselves. But nonetheless, I imagine we are the same. We have the same fears, insecurities, pleasures. Avoiding thoughts of our own mortality--instead vivaciously looking ahead at the probable future bound ahead. A fear of being vulnerability, a fear of being loved, or of loving, a fear of living day to day. A love of beauty, of simplicity, of illy defined merit.









Thus, if we are at all alike, you must have equal fervor for, if not fear, for the first moment the sun peaks through and curls your toes before you have even awakened. But then your eyes open and you suffocate: a moment like this is so rare, what if you squader the moment and waste the opportunity to seize such a rare day? Such risk of failure.
And after you eat, shower, and write 1000 words, give or take, you feel ready to face the day. But what can you do that would not be a waste. Do you peddle down the streams, a cyclic cadence of nearing an unguided destination, or do you climb the mountains which loam all around your apartment? And in your reluctance to decide, time sneaks past you, escaping through the cracks in the ground, someplace thought not to exist.
And as the apotheosis is paramount, the sun is on the precipice of breaking through it's apex, and you're beginning to worry another day will slip by. The breeze wafts the smell of cherry blossoms through your window and you are encouraged to sneak to the botanical garden you discovered last week on your way to work.
Do you share this common fear? Is at as ubiquitous as it intuitively seems?

But what of the summer you knew before? Is the true fear of letting the day past by, or realizing that the day--in reality a series of days--has already passed and now you can't rely on the same life purposes to keep your identity grounded. And you still try to hold onto the former self but your goals and motivations are archaic and you realize the whole thing is really just a thinly veiled fear of retrospective.









Maybe we are the same. Maybe we understand each other. 이것에 함께 있을 것 같습니다.

Our changing ideologies.
Our changing physiologies.