Every night, I'm kept awake by the things I don't know, and frustrated by how little I actually know. What does it actually amount to, my inexpertise in every field? You can't make a living out of doubt, and definitely not ignorance.
Hold a book, leaf through the pages one by one as you go. Words, words, words, how many are registered? And in between the lines, every pause, every comma, do I really understand the silence of what's been left out? Do I even understand what hasn't been omitted, that which stares right back at me?
It is easy to go through the day while spending hours reclined on a cushioned chair, seemingly idle, yet always conflicted in thought. Eight hours have gone by, though not one word has been written.
Self confidence is like an earthquake. Only, I wish I could predict its surge within myself so I could break the cast of doubt, locking me in place.
Do it, just do it!
And I realise I know nothing at all.
If I were cut by the paper moistened by the humidity of age, then maybe I'd believe that I could scratch the surface of wisdom with my own nails. It isn't for that reason however, that my nails are kept long.
Sleep is an escape, but I end up refusing the cure. Flawed as I am, this is the consequence of having only one meal a day.
"Can't be bothered, I really can't!"
In the spirit of Confucianism and the teachings of my forefathers, I shall continue to suffer in this oppressive structure revered as morality. Under the sky, yet above the ground, I owe my life not to myself, but to everything else.
Oh, I'm tired. But when I eat Topokki with a roll of Gimbap, I'm grateful again, for being alive. And you know, I don't even like Topokki!
振り返りはしない。草。
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