Final Words
Autor: Woon Soo Yeon
Sometimes, I think back to poignant
times in my life...
I had just stepped off the bus and felt
as if I'd shaken out a handkerchief that
had summer smeared all over it.
It was a blazing midsummer's day, where
the melody of Saint-Saens' "The Carnival
of the animals" could be heard.
I was standing on the asphalt in a place
that I can't clearly recall now... but
I do remember that it was covered by
a shadow, stretched out by the heat.
Was this the last remaining image of
a very remote city?
I noticed a small place to grab a drink.
It sat quietly in the shade, exposed to
the winds brought in by the branches
of splendid, abundant trees.
It was the kind of bar where you could
easily get a free glass of water.
It would be served in an ugly cup,
while you wiped the dripping sweat
from your body.
The bar felt like the place I used to
go when I was 20 years old, and at
the height of choking on my angst.
I remembered how I used to drag my
"World-weary" self around, when I was
far younger than I am now.
When we first heard about
Ozzy Osbourne leaving Black Sabbath,
we agonized over it, we all gathered
together to listen to the band's music.
The thought of Ozzy, wearing a black
cape and standing at the edge of a cliff
where waves raged violently below...
was devastating.
Then, we shed the naive tears of youth...
but we'd lived so excessively, and felt
so much passion and fury, that we
barely had any tears left.
To listen to Jerry Garcia's blues,
and the painful sound of his guitar--
that cut as sharply as the scissors that
once lay on his operating table--
as it reached its climax... I'd walk under
the burning sun, past the train tracks,
hop the small fence, run down
the staircase, and go to visit a friend in
Dongyo-Dong.
Our shoes were just as dirty, and looked exactly
the same as they always had.
When we were young, we hungered for more,
even though we had a lot in our lives. Somehow,
we always felt lonely... even though, truthfully,
our lives were pretty splendid.
And in some ways, we did love youth..
how it was intermittently strange... annoying...
and muddled in sweat.
We loved the theatrics of poverty, and
the diy audio system that had two fancy speakers.
We loved the small room, with its tacky wall paper
faded by sunlight, and its tiny windows that were
placed too far up on the walls. We loved our nicely
organized collection of LP records... and we even
loved the deafening roar of the passing trains that
would drown our tunes, making them sound like
nothing.
After the train would mercilessly chug by to destroy
our music... without fail, we always played rock, paper,
scissors to bet on which direction the next train
would come from.
And then, we'd forget about the bet before it was even
time for the next train to pass.
Perhaps that was our way of shaking off youth...
much the same way we'd shake off sweat from a hot
summer's day even though we knew the comfort
wouldn't last long.
Perhaps, as the young, naive boys that we were,
we believed that simply waiting for the future...
for the unknown... was a way to keep hope alive.
The high noon of youth may have already passed... but
we are still young.
When I was looking for that voice I had missed at that
unfamiliar bar, the only friend I had there... was youth.
Sometimes, I think back to poignant
times in my life...
I had just stepped off the bus and felt
as if I'd shaken out a handkerchief that
had summer smeared all over it.
It was a blazing midsummer's day, where
the melody of Saint-Saens' "The Carnival
of the animals" could be heard.
I was standing on the asphalt in a place
that I can't clearly recall now... but
I do remember that it was covered by
a shadow, stretched out by the heat.
Was this the last remaining image of
a very remote city?
I noticed a small place to grab a drink.
It sat quietly in the shade, exposed to
the winds brought in by the branches
of splendid, abundant trees.
It was the kind of bar where you could
easily get a free glass of water.
It would be served in an ugly cup,
while you wiped the dripping sweat
from your body.
The bar felt like the place I used to
go when I was 20 years old, and at
the height of choking on my angst.
I remembered how I used to drag my
"World-weary" self around, when I was
far younger than I am now.
When we first heard about
Ozzy Osbourne leaving Black Sabbath,
we agonized over it, we all gathered
together to listen to the band's music.
The thought of Ozzy, wearing a black
cape and standing at the edge of a cliff
where waves raged violently below...
was devastating.
Then, we shed the naive tears of youth...
but we'd lived so excessively, and felt
so much passion and fury, that we
barely had any tears left.
To listen to Jerry Garcia's blues,
and the painful sound of his guitar--
that cut as sharply as the scissors that
once lay on his operating table--
as it reached its climax... I'd walk under
the burning sun, past the train tracks,
hop the small fence, run down
the staircase, and go to visit a friend in
Dongyo-Dong.
Our shoes were just as dirty, and looked exactly
the same as they always had.
When we were young, we hungered for more,
even though we had a lot in our lives. Somehow,
we always felt lonely... even though, truthfully,
our lives were pretty splendid.
And in some ways, we did love youth..
how it was intermittently strange... annoying...
and muddled in sweat.
We loved the theatrics of poverty, and
the diy audio system that had two fancy speakers.
We loved the small room, with its tacky wall paper
faded by sunlight, and its tiny windows that were
placed too far up on the walls. We loved our nicely
organized collection of LP records... and we even
loved the deafening roar of the passing trains that
would drown our tunes, making them sound like
nothing.
After the train would mercilessly chug by to destroy
our music... without fail, we always played rock, paper,
scissors to bet on which direction the next train
would come from.
And then, we'd forget about the bet before it was even
time for the next train to pass.
Perhaps that was our way of shaking off youth...
much the same way we'd shake off sweat from a hot
summer's day even though we knew the comfort
wouldn't last long.
Perhaps, as the young, naive boys that we were,
we believed that simply waiting for the future...
for the unknown... was a way to keep hope alive.
The high noon of youth may have already passed... but
we are still young.
When I was looking for that voice I had missed at that
unfamiliar bar, the only friend I had there... was youth.