Sometimes, she looks back and wonders if they could have done anything different to cultivate what they had into a beautiful flower, but the train had already reached its final destination where they had no choice but to softly, quietly go their respective ways.
He had hoped the bright lights that danced in his vision were fireworks, meant to signify a spectacular spark of their passion, but instead, it had been a bomb — leaving violence and corpses amongst the destruction.
It’s often at the dead at night I play my playlist “여유로운 드라이브.” It translates to “a relaxing drive” in English but there’s so much lost in translation. English fails to capture the lilting L-sounds of Korean that mimic the rolling feeling of calm that washes over me as I play the eighteen tracks to sleep. English fails to capture the memories associated with these eighteen tracks, tracks I hold dear to my heart.
The spotify description for my playlist is ambiguous. “Classics from my childhood that never fail to make me fall asleep.” But oh, it’s so much more than that. The unlimited character limit is too public for me to spill what these eighteen tracks symbolize in my life. It’s less about the individual songs, but more about the constancy they had in my life.
My mother bought CDs one, two, and three from Korea when I was seven. The box set it came in was crumpled on the journey here, plastic casing cracked, but the CDs still intact. I have a special attachment with CD one. I’m not too sure if it’s because of the tracks themselves or if it’s because of the sense of tranquility the cover image gives me.
It depicts an image of an emerald green convertible Volkswagen Beetle. There’s a lone vintage suitcase propped upright on the flat sand surface. Oh, and there’s the sea. The sea is a light blue. It’s not the color you see when you go to the beach or the color you see when you see an image of a beach resort online. It’s so uniquely this CD. A color I’ll forever associate with this CD.
This cd has nothing profound for me on the surface level. The tracks don’t have lyrics that was able to influence how I lived life. But the tracks tell a story that shaped who I am today. Some helped mold my sleeping schedule, some taught me to find inner peace and patience, while others gave me rose-tinted glasses.
The first track is <Salut d’Amour>. “Greeting of love” in French. I’ve written about love (or at least what I know of it) with this song on repeat. Hell, I’ve written stories inspired by the swooping feelings of my heart whenever I hear the first strings. But I’ve been ignoring what those swooping feelings mean to me.
I want my future to encapsulate the essence of this song. If my life were a movie, a reel of my future will have this song as the backing track. The bright sound of the violin reminds me of my soul, blazing and vivid. The harmonies of the piano will be the love of my life grounding me in a comfortable manner, tethering me to reality and teaching me what home really means. (I want to float, but the snug rope around my waist is a welcome feeling.)
This song represents unconditional love. From my friends, future lover, and future family. And it also represents my unconditional love for them as well.
The fourth track is <Canon in D>. My love and appreciation for this song is rather shallow compared to <Salut d’Amour>. It’s a song I want to walk down the aisle to. The venue silent, save for the soft plucking of the bass and smooth crescendo of the other violins. I’m not particularly beautiful, and I won’t be particularly beautiful in the future either but the white gown on me will be awe-inspiring. The hush of the audience will be at the sight of my dress (and by extension, me to some extent) but I won’t mind, not when I see my future spouse waiting by the altar or linked arm in arm with me. (Will they have a pressed tuxedo? A white gown as brilliant as mine??)
Alas, that fantasy-like bubble is soon popped with a god-forsaken Spotify advert. I’m suddenly reminded of who and where I really am. (But I still imagine time and time again.)
every breath you take is an axiom, but everything you do to me is a paradox
I wrote this piece exactly two weeks ago and posted this on my personal Instagram account. I felt it was an appropriate piece to start off this era of my blog. I had a really fun time writing this one, mostly because it came to me so easily. But I feel like that’s honestly the case with my more emotional work or stuff that has more intimacy. I really enjoy exploring what it means to love someone and yourself despite never experiencing it myself.
I don’t think my writing is glorifying or romanticizing love (which is an assumption you may reach, the more I post my work here) because there is definitely hidden pain that’s associated with love that eventually bleeds into my writing.
I didn’t have anyone in mind for this one. Most of my pieces are narratives, whether it be external or internal. Frankly, I felt like I was writing about two characters deeply in love. But I do kind of think it’s me trying to rationalize and appreciate two sides of myself because I can identify myself in both the speaker and the addressee.
Also, I’m always a bit vague in my emotional pieces and sometimes it’s deliberate. (Often, it flies over my head that you can’t read my thought processes, whoops.) But I felt like explaining the ending in the work is a bit abrupt.
Our automatic response to someone saying “I love you” is “me too” or “I love you too.” But how can you say “too” if we love each other so differently? I would want to express to my lover that my love for them is fresh and so characteristically, so undoubtedly them. So I find that adding a “too” is a bit tacky. This sort of sounded better in my head, haha.
I’m a real sucker for that mutual understanding between two lovers that they love each other through actions. It kind of reminds me of that line from Troye Sivan’s song for him: “You don’t have to say ‘I love you’ to say I love you.”
From the moment I laid my eyes on you, I just knew I wanted to grow old with you. Your carefree yet serious attitude was very admirable to me; you are an easy person to read because you want to be heard, to make others comfortable. You had achieved that right balance of openness and preservation, enough to know where to draw the line and enough to know what you want. You were a much welcomed glittering ocean to bless the desert of my days.
You are the main character of everyone’s story. I guess that’s why I was so drawn to you, desperately wanted to be by your side because I’m merely a passing character in even my own story. At least I would be able to choose the main lead for my story. But you ripped the pages from its spine and burned it with your passionate belief: It’s unfair to constrict living to written ink on paper.
After spending years with you, I think I finally understand.
I was in a complicated relationship with myself when I found you: juggling my schoolwork, tiring job, and discovering my true self identity. I didn’t have time or the energy to think beyond my initial impression that I wanted to be with you for a long time. But now, it runs deeper than that shallow notion of shadowing you.
I was never afraid of what it could’ve meant.
What I love about you is how you always make yourself clear. Every brush of our shoulders is intentional, but never calculating. Every patient pat on my back after I empty out my stomach as you hold onto my hair is because you care about me, about us. Every sigh you let out after I run into some trouble is always accompanied with a fond twinkle in your eyes. Every time we hug as we greet each other hello or goodbye or kiss each other’s cheek as we evade the other’s punch of surprise or link arms so we don’t get lost in the crowd or hold hands while singing drunk karaoke or lock pinkies for stupid promises we’ll forget in a month’s time or… or….
All of that? That’s out of love.
Yeah, I was never afraid that your glittering ocean tickled my toes the first time you pulled an all nighter for me to help study, lapped against my ankles the second time you took me Denny’s for some hangover food, rose to my chest comfortably the fifth time you tickled my weak spot just to get the both of us to laugh, and finally overwhelmed me completely — water over head, water in my nose — because your love was so, so clear.
The ocean is terrifying. But you are comforting.
You taught me how to live and to set fire to the limits I subconsciously set for myself. And you taught me how to love because that’s just you, and that’s just us.
“I love you,” you mumbled to me a few moments ago, hands interlaced and legs intertwined.
“I know.” … “I love you.”
You hummed as your lips grew into a small smile. It was knowing, knowing how that brief pause was deliberate, not hesitation, knowing how I conveniently left out that tacky “too.” (After all, I learned only from the best.)
You always seem to know what to say: “I know.”
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