On my way out, I saw a visitor in front of the antique hall.
He was wearing a sharp tuxedo.
Maybe dressed up just to come here.
Unfortunatley, the doors were already closed.
He couldn’t come in.
If I let him in, it would mean more work for me.
As if he understood the situation, he quietly turned away, almost dismissing me.
A good guest.
I wish, I, too, could be that moderately unkind to human beings hhhh.
But my kindness is bound to my boss, and that kindness gets converted into money that supports my life.
Rather than feeling the value of labor, I am left with the heavy sense that accepting someone else’s money is the harder part.
don’t want to be kind or even do not want to say yes.
just want to disappear.
Our family has been baseball fans for as long as I can remember, following in my father’s footsteps. Since both my parents are from Seoul, it was only natural that we became fans of the Seoul team. We’ve supported the same team for years, but they never won a championship after I was born—until about two years ago, when they finally did. It had been 30 years since their last win.
People who aren’t into baseball often assume that once a team wins, it’ll stay strong. But the reality is different. The season is long, and just because a team did well last year doesn’t mean they’ll do well this year. Maybe it’s about the players’ condition, maybe it’s luck. Like life, baseball seems to be full of unpredictable timing. There are seasons when everything flows, and others when nothing seems to go right, no matter how hard you try.
This year, our team started strong, ranking first, but has slowly been slipping down. Maybe they burned out too early. Meanwhile, a team that had been stuck at the bottom for decades started this season there again—but somehow, miraculously, climbed all the way to the top. It made me mutter, like my elders often do: “You live long enough, and you’ll see everything.”
There’s a starting pitcher on our team who’s a few years older than me. He’s neither great nor terrible—just solidly average. He grew up a fan of our team, and becoming a pitcher for them was his childhood dream. He was drafted as a promising closer, but completely fell apart in his first game. After that, he lost his fastball and switched to being a starter. Since then, he’s pitched steadily—nothing flashy, just dependable enough to make fans nervous but hopeful. In seasons when our batters couldn’t score, he didn’t rack up many wins either.
Eventually, he became a free agent and chose to stay with our team. He turned down high-paying offers from other clubs and instead signed a contract full of performance-based incentives to continue wearing the uniform of his childhood dream team. To the club, he was somewhat of a burden; to me, his decision didn’t stir much excitement either. He was getting older, and I didn’t expect much growth from him anymore.
But then this season, an article came out saying his pitches were now so slow that batters couldn’t hit them. He threw his first-ever complete game shutout, pitching all nine innings by himself and securing the win. He also met every condition of his incentive-heavy contract. I watched that game, and to my surprise, I felt something deeply moving. I had thought he’d already reached his peak, that there was no room left for improvement. But after all those years of quietly hanging on, he finally had a game like that.
By simply sticking around, he found his own rhythm, his own style, and eventually, his own moment of brilliance. Living long may feel like a distant or even dreadful thing, but there’s something oddly comforting in the idea that those who endure may one day achieve something remarkable.
“You live long enough, and you’ll see everything.” It’s a phrase often used by my parents’ generation, my grandparents too. Usually said when something unexpected or unbelievable happens. But lately, the phrase carries a different meaning for me.
I’ve long felt like someone without roots, like a nameless plant drifting through the air, never quite belonging anywhere. Whenever that feeling returns, I tell myself one thing: just live long. Just endure. Even if this soil never chooses me, even if it rejects me, it doesn’t matter. This soil is already old and tired. I will outlive it. I will survive it.
And maybe—just maybe—if I hang on long enough, I’ll find my own home, my own record, my own place in the world. That’s what I choose to believe.
...> I USED TO THINK that way, but the more I reflect on it, the more I wonder—
Why is it that we can only achieve something if we endure and endure for so long?
Why must we keep holding on, creating, producing, running—constantly—just to live?
Is that really the only way to put down roots?
It’s strange.
The world feels strange.
i want to stop being cynical and believe. please let me. im scared of being disappointed but im also tired of being scared.
It’s a bit scary because I realised how quickly time slips through my fingers. Things that are happening end so quickly. But I still don’t want to “sieze the moment” because I’m more scared of the consequences— the unknown future.
Or?
I feel pressure to catch up and be one with society’s pace—BE MORE PRODUCTIVE—but I hate being dictated to and want to dig my feet in. On the other hand, I want to be a mindless robot that just follows orders. Maybe that will be less tiring. I don’t have to worry about the past, or future. Just do.
ㄴ> “우주에서, 별에서 우리에게 오는 게 뭐가 있을까요. 딱 하나밖에 없습니다. (별)빛입니다. 우리 인간이 세계상을 만드는 것은 전적으로 빛에 의해서입니다. 〔···〕 밖에 나가면 태양이 있습니다. 지금 우리가 보는 태양은 8분 20초 전의 태양입니다. 8분 20초 전에 출발한 빛 알갱이가 드디어 내 눈의 망막에 맺히는 것입니다. 그러면 8분전의 태양을 보고 있는 것입니다. 지금 태양은 어떻게 되었을까요. 모르죠. 태양에서 8분이 지나간 것입니다. 안드로메다 은하를 예로 들어 보죠. 페가수스 사각형인 안드로메다 은하를 본다면 여러분들은 이백 이십 만 년 전에 출발한 빛을 보고 있는 것입니다. 과거는 사라지지 않습니다. 바로 앞의 내 친구는 대략 백만분의 1초 전의 친구입니다. 우주에서 지금이라는 것은 전적으로 넌센스입니다. 우주는 국부적인 현상입니다. 지금 현재라는 개념은 넌센스입니다. 무수한 현재가 존재하죠. 우주에서는 무수한 현재가 존재합니다. 우리가 본다는 현상은 우주의 과거로 거슬러 올라가는 것입니다. 우주의 시간을 보는 것입니다. 나의 과거를 볼 수 있습니다. 원리적으로 볼 수 있습니다. (카메라를 가리키며) 저기 빛이 보입니다. 저 서치라이트 빛이 내 피부에 반사되어 우주로 나간다고 가정합시다. 그 빛을, 시리우스란 별 옆 행성의 어떤 지적인 존재가 본다면, 8년 전의 나를 보고 있을 것입니다. 그 지적 존재가 내 얼굴을 보는 순간 저는 8년이 지나갔고 어떤 상태인지 모릅니다. 나의 미래죠. 그런데 그 사람은 나의 과거를 보고 있습니다. 우주에서는 동시에 있습니다. 동시에 많은 순간들이 있습니다. 다 다른 순간들입니다. 다시 강조합니다. 과거는 사라지지 않습니다. 다른 행성에서 나의 과거를 볼 수 있습니다. 그러면 어떻게 내가 과거 초등학교부터 지금까지 하나의 연속된 존재로서 있을 수 있겠어요. 시간이 흘러간다는 느낌이 착각입니다. 그럼 그런 착각이 왜 생기느냐. 셀프self가 관찰자의 관점에서 그 흐름을 만들어냅니다.” (출처: 글쓰기-달걀의 혁명과 닭의 사랑)
(EN Translation)
“What do we receive from space, from the stars? Just one thing. Starlight.
The image of the world that we humans construct is entirely shaped by light.
Step outside, and there is the Sun. But the Sun we see is not the Sun of this moment—it is the Sun from 8 minutes and 20 seconds ago.
The particles of light that departed from the Sun 8 minutes and 20 seconds ago are only now arriving and striking the retina of our eyes.
So what we’re seeing is the Sun from 8 minutes ago.
What about the Sun as it is now? We don't know. 8 minutes have already passed there.
Let’s take the Andromeda Galaxy, for instance—that square in Pegasus.
When you look at it, you are seeing light that departed from it 2.2 million years ago.
The past doesn’t disappear.
Even the friend standing right in front of me is, in fact, from about one-millionth of a second ago.
In the universe, the idea of 'now' is entirely nonsensical.
What we call the present is a local phenomenon.
The concept of a singular, universal “now” is meaningless.
There exist countless versions of the present in the universe.
Countless presents coexist.
To see something is to look back into the past of the universe.
It is to see cosmic time.
In principle, we can see our own past.
(Points to the camera) You see that light?
Let’s say the beam of that searchlight reflects off my skin and travels out into the cosmos.
If an intelligent being on a planet near the star Sirius sees that light, they would be seeing me from 8 years ago.
In the moment they look at my face, 8 years have already passed for me, and they wouldn’t know what state I’m currently in.
That would be my future—yet they are watching my past.
In the universe, all moments coexist simultaneously.
There are many, many simultaneous moments.
Each one is different.
Let me emphasize again:
The past does not vanish.
On another planet, someone could witness my past.
So how can I exist as a continuous being, from elementary school until now?
The feeling that time flows is an illusion.
Then why does this illusion arise?
Because the self—the observer—constructs that flow from its point of view.”
(excerpt from Writing – The Revolution of the Egg and the Love of the Chicken)
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