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.