#beepost

he who will be never be forgotten.

i’ve always had some difficulty writing about changkyun. it’s like… speaking of him at length pulls this heaviness along with it. this weight to his personhood that cannot be ignored when addressing him. it’s been called many things. many names, most of which i find myself disagreeing with.

and it will never be my place to name something that is within another person, is another person. a person i don’t know face-to-face, at that.

but if i may speak as to give voice to a theory, i would name it devotion.

i know no other words to grasp at it. i know no other words that can even stand next to it.

the moon writing poetry to what he says is the sun. and, in turn, words streaming out from a bleeding heart like moonlight. even behind clouds. even when only a sliver is left in the sky.

dedicated. just like the rest of them.

like such gentle perennials blooming above wild grass near a stream, popping his head in under the cover of the stars, writing something between a ramble and a poem and a love letter, and then falling asleep. and like the petals of periwinkle flowers tickling your fingertips when you brush against them, leaving some teasing remark in order to cover such deep vulnerability (something like roots). and like beautiful blossoms upon the mind, his entire presence etched in a communal heart (the color purple and rich red roses and cats with crystal eyes and a half-drank bottle of hennessey, for whatever reason).

and following the growth, the blossom, the bloom. something like shyness becoming an owned sensitivity and pre-disposal to the quiet and reflective. and such sensitivity becoming lent to creativity, lyrics and melodies and recognizable bass, lingering impressions of emotion buried in songs, tattooed skin with poetry of its own. becoming well-read, well-spoken. voicing wants and wishes.

—can i see you forever?

still silly. still young. still strange. but unfurling like the flower on his forearm.

and within this growth, there is a devotion to the self. a refusal to be something that feels inauthentic. a devotion to his own expression in his music, in his production, in choices concerning what comes next. a devotion to his comfort and his brotherhood (“i don’t want to be on a stage by myself.”)

a devotion to the path he treads, shadowed, maybe, and difficult indeed, but one with its own light at the end.

—the cold road became beautiful at once, hands like ice let them bloom like spring…

i was able to endure a particularly long night.—

and at the center of this blossom, at the most profound depth of this delicacy, lies a devotion to preciousness. to the urge to carry someone’s heart in your palms. to the beloved mundanity of walking at someone’s side. to the meaning of nothing and everything and the absurdity of love and the intimacy of returning and—

—every little thing i do has meaning because of you.

and i think it is the most heart-wrenching devotion of all.

a recognition that happiness is precious because bad days come. saying that the very word, “fan,” carries weight between his lips because the meaning is precious. that the gaze, gentle and gorgeous, is precious. that memory is precious. that affection is precious. that the concept of eternity is precious because you only yearn for it when you have something you want to protect.

that though the heart bleeds (i earnestly pray you won’t forget me), it beats (stay.)

and words i could say no better than the one who thought of them.

—but even when [i wasn’t fine] our monbebes were there. and more than anyone else, my members were by my side every day. i really want to express my gratitude to them. we eat together. we sleep together… they really became my family. even without doing anything, in my daily life they always approach when i want to share something precious.

the preciousness of family, of having something to rely on, of having someone grasp your wrist when you fall.

—to our monbebe, who safeguard these precious moments, i also want to say thank you.

the preciousness of connection, of having the strength to approach someone with glistening eyes and shuddering shoulders, of laughter and memory and the return of joy.

and arguably the most precious of all; someone who names their mother as their favorite artist, who picks a favorite trinket and shows it off with pride, who will always step back to give the spotlight to someone else, who notices, who would rather carry the sentiment than the accolade, who shows up in odd places just to support his family, who repeats gentle assuages again and again and again just to somehow get his affections across, who is brought (as a pillow) to company functions because he deserves to be there, who promises forever because he believes in it now, who is calmed by the whispers of a crowd, who smiles in an affectionately catlike manner, who rises eternally like a perennial, who sees the soul of a person and names it precious.

im changkyun, who devoted to the belief even the smallest and most inconsequential thing having meaning when it is looked at with love.

so in the spirit of preciousness, of devotion, of night and shadow and blooms, i give this, somewhat in the same manner as the one it is dedicated to—

leaving forget-me-nots pressed between pages, simply as a reminder: