For we only know in part, and often, therefore, experience only in part, change only in part, hurt only in part—
 

+[one]+
 

Three years ago my family bought me a house in this town, 5 hours away from Seoul.
Before leaving me on my own, my father told me only three things: one, a week ago I drank until I passed out; two, I woke up only three days ago and cannot remember anything; three, that I told them when I woke up I only want to remember them—my parents and my brother.

Moving here was both to relieve my family of whatever problem I was causing them before I’ve forgotten everything, and also to give myself a fresh start; though starting life at the age of 29 isn’t really anything ideal. But I chose to do it anyway. Deep inside me I know I’ve had a great 29 years so far but starting with none of those will be the best decision I’ll ever make so far, too.

I have a new home, new neighbors, new clothes, new books, new me. I didn’t ask my family to live with me because I wanted to avoid spontaneous pointing out of how I’ve changed or stayed the same. For a year, I asked them to stay talking to me only about the present. They visit me once or twice a month; they have businesses in Seoul that I specifically implored them to not leave behind. I love them, but I also love being alone. And I don’t want to wonder if I’ve always wanted to be alone.
 

++
 

My left-door neighbor is a man in his forties who runs a bakery but fixes stringed instruments and tunes pianos part-time. The fifth time I went to eat my breakfast at his place, he sat beside me and told me how he used to be part of a band. He even played and sang to me one of the songs he composed. The next day I asked my other neighbor to accompany me to buy a piano.

My right-door neighbor is a lady three years younger than me. On the day I moved in, she was out on her porch reading a book written in characters but not in Korean. She didn’t look up at me and as soon as I opened my front door and instructed the move-in people to bring in my things, she stuck in her earphones and just continued reading. The next afternoon I found her there again.

“I must have disturbed you yesterday. The noise. Sorry,” I said over my low wooden fence.
I met her monotone eyes, “I appreciate that. But you really don’t have to apologize.”

My eyes stared glued on the same book she was reading.
“It’s uhm, in Japanese,” she explained
“Oh, right. That’s why I couldn’t read the title.”

“Welcome to the neighborhood, by the way.”
“Can I ask you for a favor?”

“I am not garbage dump, you know,” she said as I arrived at her porch with a half-filled black plastic bag.
“These are things I can never throw away.”
“Oh, I am not also a safety deposit bank.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t require you to add anything on to it.”
“Can I look through its contents?”
“Okay, but don’t let me know you did.”

I myself don’t know the contents of that bag. When I decided to move in, I was still at the hospital and I stayed there until I came here. I bought everything that I brought here. My brother only brought one huge luggage and that plastic bag from my home. The luggage contained important documents and family photo albums which I haven’t looked into yet. The plastic bag, Yoohwan explained had a tag, “Things Yoochun won’t ever throw away” and so brought it along.

Sometimes I wonder if I had actually prepared for all this “starting anew” to happen.
 

++
 

I love being in this place. No one seems to really be out of place and everyone seemed to be spoiled in some way by another person or two in the neighborhood. To me that would be being spoiled by my left and right-door neighbors and vice versa.

Mr. Bakery finds me in a willing, but critical enough, listener to his music. In return, when I want to I can occupy the most secluded corner in his bakery shop. I get to borrow music cds and sheets from him, too.
Ms. Bookish finds in me a patient and responsive listener to the stories she reads. In return she keeps me company, when I want to just sit and play music, or when I want to go around town, or wherever, just never around Seoul. It’s funny how she would always fuss about how I dress whenever we go out. She always say, “Let’s not make you look too dazzling to gain you stalkers that could follow us home and disturb the peace in our neighborhood.” I would always end up almost wholly wrapped, but somehow still not looking bad. I wonder if she’s a fashion expert at times I don’t see her.
I never really got to know what she does for a living. Does anyone get paid just for reading stories the whole day?
But anyway, I also never really got to know what I do for a living. My parents never told me what I used to do before and they never required me find a job, too, after I got out of the hospital. They simply informed me about my bank account, which when I check from time to time never fails to tell me that I am a freakin’ rich 29-year old bachelor.

Once, I asked my parents if they were sending me money; I don’t remember us talking about allowances anyway. They told me I ventured into different businesses before and that I continue gaining profit from most of them. My brother were handling them well on my behalf. I didn’t ask anything more.

It’s just a relief to me that I am not being a burden to anyone by staying the way I am now. And it’s a relief to know that the money I use to buy gifts for my parents and for my brother weren’t from their own pockets, too. Truly, a relief.

 

+[two]+
 

It was a weekend and we’ve just finished watching three episodes of Running Man, a variety show Jara is so crazy about that though the show has ceased to air already, she still watches it. She has a complete DVD set of the episodes of the show. I cracked up at the Drawing Relay. I thought, being a celebrity doesn’t really make one better in drawing. It’s a relief, because I think I fail at that, too. On the other hand, her eyes were glued on the four “idol” guests as they danced, laughed and talked. I expected her to fan-girl over them, Rising Gods of the East. She didn’t. Maybe she was just trying to burn them with her stare for naming themselves “gods” when obviously no man can ever be a god.

After that we went out to have snack at the bakery. Along the way, she continued to tell me a story she started reading days ago.
“Okay, so this guy drew and wrote all those stuff about the woman he loves so much just so he could start forgetting about her?”
“That’s what the story tells so.”
“That is so frustrating!” In my frustration, I drank my Yakult in one gulp, which I disliked doing.
“It makes sense, in a way,”

I stared at her. It actually makes sense to me.

“Can real people really do such a thing?” I asked, staring at the monotone of her eyes; I’ve come to believe they only always show the truth about her.
“It is not impossible. Remember what I always tell you? If someone had thought about writing it, someone else must have thought about doing it.”
“What if I did the same thing?”
“What if you did the same thing?”
“Answer me.”
“You answer me.” She always like explaining things to me. When she doesn’t, I just know there is something she’s not telling me. Something did a somersault in my stomach. I need to have another Yakult.
 

++
 

She left me with two weird thoughts today: one, the sketch story she told me is truly tragic and I hate it; two, she actually thinks I could possibly write such a story and I think it’s crazy but I just couldn’t disagree with her.

I went back home after she left me in the rain. I don’t like getting rained on, and I get sick easily because of it. And I did got sick that night. For two whole days she had to take care of me. On the third day, I got up and found her reading another book in my living room. She turned to me and her gaze followed me as I sat to play my piano.

I started playing ‘Sometimes Someone’ and soon she joined me on my seat.
“Have you ever tried writing your own song instead of playing the ones we just hear and find pleasing?”
“My own song? What do you suggest it should be about?”
“Hmm. How about your memories?”
“Which ones, the one I have now or the ones I couldn’t remember?” Though I actually seldom think that I have memories I can’t remember.
“How could memories you can’t remember be memories at all?”
“You’re right. Unless I remember them, only then can they be memories, and only then can I write a song about them.” And the real question is would I ever want to write about them?

“Should I try harder to remember?” I thought out loud, which gained a reply from her.
“Honestly, I don’t think you ever tried to remember. Am I right?” Right, I thought quietly.

“A guy came by the other day,” I decided to try telling a story, pairing it with another tune, ‘Everyday Distant Memories.’
She started to sway her head along with the tune.
I chuckled, “I thought he was a woman.” I thought he was one among the Rising Gods of the East we saw in that variety show.
“He offered a handshake but I embraced him. Weird, huh? And I am sure I am not into guys.” It felt like he was my brother, too.
I continued, “I quickly apologized as I let go of him. He said he thought I remembered.”

“Did you ask him what you were supposed to have remembered?”
“I only stared at him.” Then I told him I don’t want to remember. Harsh, yes. I actually saw pain in his eyes.
“You had a crush on him?” Did I crush him?

I stopped playing the piano and continued the song in a hum. I moved my arms to embrace her.
“I have something to confess.” Because now I know that she had gone through the things in my black plastic bag.

“You’ve written a song already?” She hugged me back. She always does when I hug her. But she never hugs me first. I wish now that one day she would.
“The sketch story,” I said.
“You really wrote it?” she chuckled, as I felt her heartbeat changed its pace.
“I’ve read it before.” Because, yes, I actually wrote it.
“And?”

I pulled away from her warm embrace, faced the piano and started writing the music playing on my head since the day I woke up at the hospital. It was a tune I was trying to bury at the back of my head by playing other music, listening to other songs. But today it suddenly came completed in me.
Jara watched as I played, scribbled, played, scribbled. But she didn’t show at all that she waited too long.
I waited too long, too. I woke up today and everything was there again. I remembered her again. I let out a deep breath and looked up at where she is. “I’ve already written the song.”
It was as if I saw someone smile up there and nodded.
I turned to Jara, my right-door neighbor, “Want to hear it?”
She only stared, confused.
“It’s almost the same as your the sketch story, but on this one, I remembered to point out that the ‘after’ came.”

I believe there is no need to tell her what she already knows.
 

+[end]+

For the Yoochun images I used, credits again to ereluna, who made "in the morning (or how the world learned to keep turning) - a yoochun mix," a wonderful list of songs plus the great images that came along with it. :)

"Everyday Distant Memories" is an OST track for the Japanese animation movie "5 Centimeters Per Second". "Sometimes Someone" is a piano music by Yiruma.  Click the song title to listen to them or play them while reading.