Y&R

💌 캐사예아 (캐럿들은 사랑스럽고 예쁘고 아름답다) 💌 니내내니 (니가 있어야 내가 있고, 내가 있어야 니가 있다) 💌 시계바늘 (시간이 지나도 계속 바라볼게 늘)

If my life was a fertile garden, adorned with a surfeit of roses, lilies, dahlias so plentiful that with every turn of the head there are only delicate petals of bright hues, show-stealing shapes in pastels in sight,

then days would be concrete walls isolating their growth.  

Flowerbeds are to be sectioned off. They say it’s a sin for one colour blend into another — anomalies would only hold back productivity, everything must be seen, done, grown one at a time. There are certain spaces for certain things, certain times for certain tasks. A plan of attack is vital, only vital tasks are added to the plan of attack. Any unnecessary musings must be weeded out.

Because otherwise — oops! You have missed the timeframe to grow this one out; too late. Your chance is gone, and now this land will remain barren forever, curse your carelessness.

Or so they say.

How thrilling it would be to shrink to the height of a thumb, to gather flowers of different colours and sizes in a bundle without a care and fly off into some isolated recess of the unexplored earth! To let one idea collide into another, mix like paint escaping from its shackles of a palette and dripping onto the floor. How wonderful it would be to remain blissfully unaware: of the need to compartmentalise concepts for quicker understanding, better digestion, like knowledge is the sole nutrition necessary for living. What would it feel like to leave behind time that has always chased me at my heels, kick off the shoes that has taken me running for so long, and to — for once! — look up at the sky and think of nothing, nothing at all?

Has a better feeling existed in the universe than fluttering back, carried by the warm south wind, to find the garden still in full bloom, for time is not a conspirator of destruction, but an aid in healing, a catalyst for growth?

But there’s no helping the sunlight that's funnelled down to necessary portions; the water that runs through gridded pipes; the leaves dictated to a straight growth; buds that are timed for blooming periods, where punishment for tardiness is immediate expulsion. It is the way things work.

The bricks go on piling while the colours fade within them, stalks part with their strength of the past. The flowers wilt,

wilt,

wilt,

until all that’s left are the satisfaction of a wall upheld

To you whose sunny countenance parts clouds to let rays of light through — whose easy words and carefree laugh render pain to non-existence — whose wisdom thrives in quiet thoughts like honeysuckles on a wall — whose determination battles silent anguish, uncertainty that knows no end. Long past midnight when curtains have been drawn and darkness has stolen need for light, you stay beyond the requisite.

For you, a thousand manuscripts I’d write — vain attempts to map out streams of affection; rivers of sentiment; tributaries to trace my muse, my motivation. None adequate enough: these words constrained by capability and lost to inadequacy can only capture so little of the brilliance in your smile.

Though past scars have long since faded, new ones will impress on your skin. And the bones you’ve laid down to rest, creative mind you’ve put to sleep, will wake and grow tired once more. Unavoidable; the terror that finds your acquaintance at night, but you are not alone. Never.

Please find strength in the cheers, the love showered on you by those who care. Keep smiling. The one who graces others with sunny countenance — the one whose quiet thoughts inspire will power and tenacity — the one who forges, polishes his fervent determination to withstand exhaustion, agony, hopelessness, disappointment, will emerge as final victor.

One day, stop; turn around and smile at the legacy you’ve left behind (the successes your own hard work ignited in others); and your artwork that is immortalised by moved hearts, by awakened souls.

You have been an inspiration, a catalyst for happiness without whom my days would never be filled with an ardent resolve to climb up steep mountains; to chase rainbows of dreams; to find the gold within the debris of shipwreck; to be nothing but the very best.

Happy nineteenth birthday, Hansol. Stay funny, happy and healthy.

What made you turn the keys on ignition, forgo oxygen, inhale rap, assured the mirage of triumph's worth your endeavour? Did you grow immune to the sun’s transitions, overdosed on your daylight prescriptions? Wits and talent marked up to a measure, remnants of youth buried like lost treasure; could they have sparked such fiery ambitions?

The stars are near; but no hand of the earth's reached out to pull the sky down for your ease; You’ve built a rocket, soared to prove your worth. Don’t despair — though your youth bore no daisies, seas of yellow poppies are bursting forth, paving flower paths through which you may breeze.