, that dream again. For 17th time in past six weeks I'm dreaming of a guy named Lee Sungmin who wants to commit suicide but fails miserably. The first time when he was only sixteen and he didn't understood the purpose of living. But now he's twenty-two and he still didn't find the purpose. And he thinks about all the deep things about life and it's not that he likes it but nor does he hate it. But that's the worst. He doesn't know if his life is good or bad. You shouldn't be so indecisive about life or the vortex will take you. You'll end up drowning in the crowd of people walking by past you, elbowing you from side to side only so you could end up wherever.

My name is Cho Kyuhyun. I never told about Lee Sungmin to anyone. My friends already think I'm weird enough and that I say too many things that don't fit into the usual frames of speech. But that's fine with me. I never was made to fit. I tried but failed miserably. Maybe I wasn't meant to fit. It's not that it makes me mad or anything. I'm still alive and that satisfies me enough. But it can never be more than enough. Not even less. Life was never made for living outside the boundaries. You were born and raised with the thought that you're going to die some day. I wish I was immortal like Lee Sungmin in my dream. Lee Sungmin can stand on the railways and never get hurt. There would be trains passing and lights flickering but he would survive. He would always survive. That made me re-think all the gibberish talk about life and boundaries. There's never the end. There's always a new blank page to turn. At least that is something I want to believe in.

"KyuBaby! Come on, the dinner is ready!"

I liked Christmas. The warm family atmosphere, candles and lights everywhere, the wide specter of colors around me - on the streets, on people, at the stores... The whole town dressed in a weird flash of excitement, a fever - spreading from person to person, from object to object, everything everywhere! And of course, the traditional family dinner. I could never miss that. My mom made wonderful food. And the next morning that fresh, new feeling I couldn't explain. And after that the New Year. Weird how holiday season always hits you in the head, even when you're not in the mood for celebration. When I was a kid, it was my favorite time of year. I remember I used to hang my pants in front of my bed instead of socks because I wanted to get a bigger present. But now I've grown up and there are different kinds of rules for the grown ups the kid version of me would surely laugh at. One rule at a time and you become a walking constitution. I love my life.

"I'm coming, noona!"

GaemGyu says (18:57):

I'll talk with you later, K?

myblacksmile says (18:57):

Potassium. Bye.

GaemGyu has just signed out

myblacksmile has just signed out

I wonder if Lee Sungmin likes Christmas.

---

Sungmin was a lost composer, an unknown pianist, a photographer, a painter, a writer, whatever he wanted. He also knew how to cook well. When he played it was like stars came falling from the sky only to listen to him and in the morning, when he was done, exhausted and overwhelmed 'cause once again he'd outdone himself, they would go back and wait for the next arrival of miracle. His.

Sungmin was a night person. He would hibernate through a whole day and do wonders at night. The night was his time of life. His family thought it was weird. But his family didn't exist. Sungmin had a friend but he didn't know his name. He liked that friend of his. He also liked music. His friend liked music, too. Sungmin and his friend barely communicated with words. They both liked playing the piano and they both stayed awake at night. It was perfect. Life was perfect like that.

Sungmin didn't like Christmas. The last thing he wanted to do is to decorate some plastic tree, watch people all colorful and glittery, smiling widely at camera lenses, making wishes and kissing and hugging at midnight. And why at midnight? Why his favorite time of day? They were always taking things away from him. They detested him. They feared him. They...

"But Sungmin, who are they?", his big brother Sungjin would ask. It was one of those poor attempts to finally get to him, to these unknown parts of him he was always hiding away from everyone, like his music, his name, his face, his everything.

He stayed quiet and stared at his music sheets, examining their every single detail, editing some mistakes, he even edited the sheets of his favorite composers if he didn't find them amusing. His concentration was unbreakable.

"They..."

"Sungmin, please come back home. Everyone misses you."

"They..."

A long sigh from the other side of the phone. Sungjin wanted to stop trying again. He believed he could get some sense into his little brother but now it seems that he had stopped believing. The phone calls turned into a habit for him. Still, he needed to check on him from time to time, to see if he was alive. But every time he called, more and more he wished his little brother was dead. It was easier to take. It was painless. He wouldn't have to listen to the same story over and over again. The same dead tone in his voice, the same grayscale atmosphere he allowed himself to drown into once in a while and regret it afterwards. The same draining speech about his weird obsession, his weird paranoia and Them – oh my god, Them – "Sungmin, I can't do this anymore" – he would sob into the phone while Sungmin stared blankly at his sheets, his precious notes, his one and only escape from everything around him, so cruel and dull, from Them. Them who made him do this anyway, them who defied him, who ate him alive. It was confusing. But in Sungmin's story everything was confusing. The only thing that wasn't confusing was the love he felt for his friend. It was pure and clear, almost idealistic. And at least it wasn't confusing to him. His big brother would say something like:

"But Sungmin, is he even real?"

He has to be, Sungmin thought to himself. At least he was sure about that. He needs to be real.

"My dearest friend, are you real?"

"Of course I am."

"Good."

And so the night slowly passed. The dark room was getting brighter again and the stars were no more there to listen to him. He put the black silk over his piano and went back to sleep. He was tired. The sun was almost up.

"I'll talk with you later, K?"

"Potassium. Bye."