Blue as the Seoul Sky

Blue as the Seoul Sky

(Morning Notes)

W dreams. He is a man who lives between two continents and a single pair of worn-out shoes.

THE SETTING

A space in flux. First, the Far East: a clinical white, endless avenues, and elevators that ascend to the heavens. Then, the Americas: a cramped side-street, the smell of smog, and the unbearable weight of out-of-season fruit.

---

I. THE HOLE IN THE WALL

Professor W stands in an agora of lime-white, crowded with ghosts. Suddenly, a vacuum. The Forum attendees depart for a tribute to "H"—a man of whom no one knows if he died or if he never existed at all.

W wanders through interminable hallways, climbing and descending stairs as a physiological urgency consumes him. He finds a cubicle: it is not a restroom, but an office; there is no toilet, only a tiny hole in the wall at ankle height. To use it, W must perform the choreography of a contortionist: he lifts a leg, presses his cheek to the floor, and bends himself like a misspelled letter.

As he unburdens his grief, two silent witnesses appear: two women in their early twenties. They watch him with scientific curiosity. They also wish to use the facility, but W informs them that this is not a restroom; it is a cabinet for scientific journals.

“They’re looking for you, you know... You were supposed to give a lecture, and then you vanished.”

W exits the room with a deconstructed stride.

II. THE ELEVATOR THAT SMELLS OF NOTHING

W is in Seoul (or what he believes to be Seoul). Everything is clean, vast, and silent. He boards a glass elevator that floats above empty avenues. Inside, two other young women recognize him.

—“You were supposed to give a lecture.”

—“I have given lectures everywhere,” W replies, “but the audience never arrived... they all left to follow someone named H.”

W compares his worlds. Over there, in the Americas, there is only noise, faceless crowds, and the scent of burnt gunpowder. Here, in the sky of the East, there are only invisible walls and manicured gardens that block your path. He boards the wrong bus, speaks to a non-existent driver, and ends up buying a carnivorous plant he has no idea how to feed.

III. THE GATE AND THE FIST

Back in reality. W carries thirty pounds of oranges on his shoulder. The plastic bag is on the verge of splitting open. It is a one-man procession toward his apartment.

Then, He appears: The Neighbor with the Small Dog. The ideal of beauty and composure. W dreams that this man will save him, carry his oranges, and walk him to his kitchen. But reality has other plans.

—“How are you today, sir?” the Neighbor asks.

Strike one. The formal “Sir” is a wall of ice.

W tries to be funny; he sticks his tongue out from the physical strain, searching for a connection. The Neighbor reaches out his hand. W expects a warm handshake, but the Neighbor closes his hand. A fist bump. W, hands occupied by plastic bags, awkwardly knocks his inexperienced fist against the other’s. A clumsy, sad collision of worlds. The Neighbor leaves. W is left alone with his key and his exhaustion.

IV. THE BRIDGE OF ACCEPTANCE (The Final Dream)

In one last blink before dawn, W returns to the white bridge. The Neighbor is far off in the distance, walking his dog. W carries his oranges. He no longer expects anyone to help.

—“You didn’t help me with the bags!” W shouts.

—“It’s because they’re too heavy!” the Neighbor calls back from afar.

W sits on the ground. He understands that the oranges are heavy because they are real. He understands that the Neighbor is distant because that is the geometry of desire. There is no applause. No magical redemption. Only a man sitting with his fruit on an infinite bridge.

V. THE LONG SATURDAY

W wakes up. It is ten in the morning. It is Saturday.

He stares at the ceiling. He feels the ache in his shoulder. There is no Seoul, there are no spectators, and there are no neighbors in his room. Only the silence of a hard-won retirement.

W does not get up. He does not make juice. He does not face the day. He decides that the ultimate act of rebellion against the absurd is to close his eyes again and inhabit his own solitude—which now, finally, no longer feels as heavy as the oranges.

FIN.

---