He’s lost.

There’s an urge to write, put words down to paper, but when he sits at the table, notebook in hand, nothing comes out. He puts the nib of the pen down against the lined sheets away, hoping something will come. Nothing does.

It wasn’t always like this.

*

There’s Zico, and then there’s Jiho.

They’re the same person, but they’re not. He doesn’t know which, or who, he is sometimes. He’s both and neither at the same time; It’s like Schrodinger’s cat except he’s human and the only one who’s ever going to open the box is himself. He’s not sure he has the strength to open it and observe who he really is.

So he doesn’t.

*

Zico’s the one outside, in shiny new clothes, confident, famous, respected. Jiho’s the one at home, wearing nothing but boxers in the heat of summer, scribbling lines after lines of rejected lyrics, chair rolling in piles of scrunched paper, opened ramyeon packets and empty bottles of water. Zico’s the one without rest, showing his face appearance after appearance in every and anything, music shows, variety shows, commercials, the underground rap scene. Jiho’s just the small boy who wanted to make it big and can’t believe that Zico’s made it.

He’s one, he’s the other. He’s neither, he’s both.

He’s Zico and he’s Jiho, but right now he doesn’t feel like either. He’s too large for his body but too small. He needs to write, but he can’t. H