Skip to main content

Busan: Urban Jungle (Christmas Melancholy)

Smiles wherever, smiles are free. Jungle life for the Christmas tree. Blue moon, blue sod, blue wind; fighting through the flesh, diminishing strength, and solidifying procrastination. Nampo-dong, how I miss thee.

A cup of cake, a Red Velvet, and an ever-friendly face. Is it true? You are my saviour, my light, when all else faded. Why. Why you. Why did it have to be you?

How close was I to sin when the tape ran smooth on my prickly and battered fingers? Weeks and weeks I laboured, and weeks I endured the wrath of longing. The moth torched her wings when I ignited it ad hoc. It was not my intention. It was all for the subject of love. 

And now it's over. The lights have come. We run away from things which we quickly realise are nothing but herrings. Christmas in Nampo-dong is for love and healing; but my heart is reeling, and my tears are killing. It's over now. Or is it?

Is it the love that I feel which is inextinguishable? Mioseon. Charm. Tough as nails; collapsing the gumption we both shared overnight, over time, over love, over me.

Then here lies Seomyeon, all Christmas-less. Like the tides of Valentine sweeping through the valley. Tip, tap, boom. You reckon no less than a shot of soju would silence the pain, but no. Tip, tap, kaboom. Everything else, everyone else, is gay and lolly.

Not me. No, no. I cannot feel it. Not now, not then. Only within the crevice of the hoi polloi do I manage to flounder about my folly, tinkering other people's humour with my own insecurities, sheltering myself from the borderline violence burning deep inside. Let's not dwell on the past, please. The future is ripe for potential. 

Pampering complexities, making each and every move a go-to memory. There is less and less to see, and more to feel. So much more. It ends. It all eventually ends. We all die, and we all lived merrily after Christmas. So much for the vibe of the Seomyeon youth. We all live to make sacrifices bearable to the human soul. Pain, anguish. Blue moon and sod and wind.

Merry Christmas. I miss you, love.

Popular posts from this blog

Strange Fruit

I had recently adorned a vow of silence for myself with Miriam for no apparent reason whatsoever other than to suit my whim, and, regardless of the pettiness associated with this misdemeanour, I pray this will only strengthen us both in spirit for the coming days. The coming days are definitely not meant for one such as me.
In the next few hours, not shortly before I am done with this piece, this vow will be disavowed. Miriam is sleeping soundly in my right, broken by the exhaustion that seemed to catch her unaware. This was not what she had prepared for when coming to London. This was not what I meant for her when I asked her to come. In order to alleviate the guilt of me making it more difficult for us both, I do what it is that I do best, and that is to love her hungrily and wildly. And some little bit of swag on the side to cure her state of frustration albeit temporarily.
My days are long and yet wields very little. For now I do and take whatever I can, whenever I can. A grand f…

Snippet: In her darkest days, Elaine (worldbuilding), unfinished

Voices of strange busybodies could be heard on the other side of the edifice. Elaine reckoned she recognised one of them. An old friend. Perhaps not necessarily a friend, or not technically a friend. A friend is a rare commodity for her these days. She could walk right past them and not blink an eye, but Elaine waited for a little bit more until the lot toned down. Having a group of opposites around her, poking her skin through their eyes, meticulously making sure she was an enabler who to them an abundant source of entertainment, was all the reason needed to convince herself to back away from the complexity of it all. Home is an awful lot more awful than this place though, Elaine thought, as she gripped her handbag tightly, hoping the ray of darkness from the moon would envelope her and shield her from the attention of the lonesome trail.
"This would not have happened had you only listened to me, Elaine," complained Darco. "Half the people out there would skin us both…

Decide my fate for me

As though the wind may pass with golden steps from shallow graves, the warmth of her hands could not defeat January weather in England, proving that tests of fate weigh heavier than the insidious intentions of a warring tribe. Perhaps it is high time I engage in other methods more worthy of personal consideration. She left me in the cold when my reality cloaked in malady was in full motion, sweating icicles in the interior, punching my guts in gutsy ups and gutsy downs. She was my meaning. She is my void.