Every morning after I wake up, the fact that I am majoring in international communication studies never fails to make me question myself. Communication, me? ME, COMMUNICATION!? I find it absolutely ridiculous. But of course, I came here for the foreign language classes and lectures that improves one's cynicism, adding gunpowder to the suicidal explosion. If one day I can fully grasp the philosophy of 「物の哀れ」then perhaps I would die a beautiful death, undisturbed by the fragility of life in decay. Maybe if I constantly tell myself that suicide is aesthetic, I could die, vain.
I wonder if attending social events is the trigger for my helpless negativity. Isolated even when I am a part of the herd, rubbing shoulders with other warm bodies and treading through the darkness holding organic flames, watching the world wither in circles of candlelight-- it takes an unnatural amount of talent to feel alone in a crowd of 200, among 5 friends. The sky was beautiful, at least. In the dark, nobody can see the single teardrop that runs down the side of your cheek. It could have just been the sweat that leaks on a humid Friday night.
Should I have came home right after class, nesting myself in bed watching this week's episodes of Saimdang: Light's Diary, I would have been much happier. Performances and an evening picnic on damp grass would have been missed, but at least I wouldn't be as conscious of my own disconnection to the world.
A ghost, eh? I suppose there is some truth to that. Did someone also say that my future couldn't be foretold? What had he seen in the flicker of candle light? Who knows.
As the days pass, I feel my existence becoming weaker. Heavy as I may be, light I feel as I float above my responsibility and repetitive routine. I know I will continue to wake up the very next day, and that alone is enough to reassure me that this life will come to an end when we least expect it.
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