I possess photos and memories of trees curving up through the morning mist, and I used to run outside and film the clouds before the sun came up. Such memories sting you when you’re hemmed in by the monumental ugliness of Busan. I think I’m learning here that I’m not one for cities—what point is there to waking up if you don’t wake up to a forest?
Nevertheless I must wake up, but it’s something of a fight to do so, and the dark unhappiness here permeates everything I do. I spend my very early mornings (and most of my free time) reading and drinking coffee; usually that combines to inspire me, despite insomnia born out of anxiety—that I am essentially becoming someone I would hate.
As I said, this darkness permeates everything, soaks down my soul and trickles out into my writing. I thought up an anecdote, but the first paragraph was so absurdly depressing that I decided not to continue with it. I may return to the idea at another time. I think literature is supposed to be pleasant, at the least, and not torturous and depressing.
This is the paragraph:
A cool gray morning with the light pinks and blues of the city cement reduced to colorlessness, that’s the morning I woke up to, forgetting my dreams in the mist. What a reality to return to, like shattered shards of glass spread out under your feet, but I gritted my teeth and rose up and went through the motions in the cold pale dark. Nihilism ate away at me like a black tingling mold but it had not consumed me yet. I expected nothing from the day…and, in fact, nothing is exactly what I got. THE END.