It would be so easy to say “I hate you” — but then I realize I would just be lying if I did.

I have encountered so many people throughout the course of my years, and I can declare right now that no one has ever compared to you in terms of being indifferent, careless, and unloving. (I must have gotten that from you.)

I think that’s what I’m saddened by the most.

Do you remember?

At age five, I asked you to read me a storybook. I couldn’t read Hangul at the time, and mom was at work, so I asked you. You threw the book across the room and yelled at me for being a hindrance.

At age eight, I asked you to come to school for a day because we were required to bring our fathers in to class. You never showed up, so I had to be accompanied by a counselor instead.

At age eleven, I grew to be overweight and I was made fun of by all the kids at school. I asked you for help. You told me I was an embarrassment. I lost the weight a year later, but you still didn’t give much of a ****.

At age thirteen, I got interested in cars after seeing you work as a mechanic. I asked if I could tag along. You told me I would fail at it, so you left me behind that Sunday morning.

At age seventeen, I came out to you. You struck me and refused to see me for a month.

A few weeks ago, I got accepted into three universities. I sent you a text. And you said I could have done better.

I’ll be honest. When my friends talk about their fathers, I get envious. They play sports with their dads. They wrestle together. They go to the gym together. They talk together. They watch movies together. They actually connect and that concept itself is so foreign to me.

There was only one time you ever sat down and spoke with me — and just when I thought we could connect, all you did was talk trash about my own mother in front of my face. As if you could turn her own son against her.

"I hate you." I almost wish I did. If I did, it would be so simple to cut all ties with you. But I still love my father — for what, exactly? What has my old man done to deserve any of my love? Ah… give me money? Because money buys love, right? I don’t need any of that, though. I just wanted to spend time with you. But it’s fine. I’m growing up. I don’t expect anything from you. I lived these eighteen years without you, so I don’t need you now.

If and when I become a father one day, I won’t make the same mistakes you did. If I ever do decide to have a child, I’m going to make sure they know what it’s like to have a loving father. Thanks for showing me what kind of father I shouldn’t be. You taught me that lesson, at least.

"You're so lucky you're so well-liked."
"Your life seems so easy."

You're so lucky.
You have it so easy.

I've been spending some time to find a way to articulate my discomfort in these two phrases. "You're so lucky, you have it so easy." The reasons are pretty clear, because I don't consider my journey in the least bit easy, but I can see why you would assume that -- after all, you'll always find me being optimistic in person.

When things *were easy, they were not out of pure luck. I faced adversity with the display of resilience, and stood my ground when I was faced with hardship. I've watched my flowers wilt into weeds despite the nurture I had provided. And while I may be happier now, I was not fed the love and care I had desired from the very beginning. I wasn't always this way.

I don't talk about my past extensively. When I do, they tend to be the memories I've learned to accept and embrace throughout the course of my years. I don't talk about the time in middle school, when I was constantly made fun of for being overweight. I don't talk about the time I starved myself for weeks, thinking it would reduce the load off my stomach and hips. I don't talk about the time when I've been told I was a freak of nature, that I would never become the person I wanted to be. I don't talk about the time when doctors had to pump out the toxin out of my stomach, forcing me to ***** out pills and choke on my bile-washed throat for hours on end.

I don't talk about these things, but that doesn't make my own journey 'easy'. I did not end up to be the way I am now without all of these experiences. If that were the case, then fine. Call me lucky. Call it easy.

Life, in general, is hard. It hasn't been easy, but I've done it, and my purpose in being here today is to show all of you that you are capable. That no matter what's in your way... you can do it, too.

Which leads on to my second point: we live in a society of comparison culture. I've gone through a couple of things throughout the spans of my life, but that, in no shape or form, makes your own life experience trivial. I don't talk about my past very often, and when I do, it's often for someone who is going through something I once dealt with. I wish to leave the past in my memory box, and if it collects dust, I certainly won't mind. Not anymore, because I know now. I've experienced it. I've carried those burdens.

I do not wish to tell any of you the amount of times I've wished to leave this world. I want to tell you the reasons why I want to stay in this world. I do not wish to tell you my dislikes of this world, but my penchants of it.

In other words, what bothers me about the phrase "you have it so easy" is that it is an implied comparison.

My weight loss success was so easy... compared to someone making it out of physical therapy? My grades were easily gained... compared to someone with learning disability? My life was so easy... compared to what?

Every person is different. Every human experience is different. The phrase "you're so lucky that you have it so easy" bothers me so much, because not only does it paint over my struggles, but it emphasizes the flaw that we, as a society, have embedded into our minds. That comparing our lives to someone else and weighing our problems on a scale is the only way to determine our worth.

My friend's grandmother passed away. My other friend's dog just recently passed as well. Both individuals were devastated. I won't simply say, "my friend's feelings are legitimate because it was her grandmother, but my other friend is overreacting over an animal." No, that's not how it works. Sadness is sadness. Pain is pain. Hurt is hurt. One does not weigh any heavier than the other. They both exist on personal spectrums, but one does not hold any more value than the other.

The same applies to happiness. Happiness is constantly compared, which therefore makes all of us less happy. Just like compassion, just like hardship, and just like sadness -- happiness should not be compared, but shared.

I don't want you thinking, "Oh, Minhyuk has it so easy. Minhyuk is so lucky." I want you to wish your life could be as great as you could make it. I hope your life is better than yesterday, and the day before that. And if it isn't, I hope you can get back up on your feet and gather your courage again. I want you to stop wishing for someone else's life and begin to embrace your own. I want you to be able to stand alone in a room, without a single comparison, and know that you are worthy of absolutely everything in this golden world.

We're not lucky.
We don't have it easy.

But what we do now will make things easier, and make us happier. If not now, then in the future.

Because we are all worth it.

She refused to provide any sort of security for a man who lacked confidence in the world. She didn’t want to be the supporting role for another story, because she was too busy being the protagonist of her own.

She preferred stimulating conversations when the hours have grown well-past midnight and when souls become vulnerable, rather than hurried nights of false love. Besides, she was already in love with herself — a rarity in most people. She didn’t waste her time with anything or anyone that didn’t move her. She brushed away countless offers to be saved.

She didn’t need any saving.
The ones who wanted to save her only wanted to save themselves.

To others, she was dead and cold. But she was actually alive, burning with flames of passion. Others didn’t understand, and she didn’t expect them to.

To her, they were only blinded by the idea that you needed someone else in order to really taste life.

August, 2012.



I found that almost everyone around me was wondering what the hell they were doing with their life; questioning whether or not they were on the right path. People tend to think they’re the only ones lost in the whole god ****** world, but everyone feels lost at some point in his or her life.

sometimes only for a while,
and sometimes forever.

September, 2012.



Do you know that feeling when you sense that there’s some sort of chance that you would connect with someone really well? You see a person and you just get this intense, weird feeling. It’s a feeling that you really can’t explain in words. You just kind of see them and you want to get to know them. But you don’t say or do anything at all. You just let the chance slip by and then they’re gone. That feeling often lingers. Quietly.

Sometimes I wish it were easier for us to express ourselves, or just to walk up to a person and let them know, “Hey. I don’t know you and you don’t know me. It’s something I can’t really explain, but for some reason, I just have this feeling inside of me that wants to get to know you. And if I don’t, I’d probably be missing out on something great."

November 2012.



You have only fallen in love with the idea of her. And I assure you that if you had the chance to peer deep down inside her mind and unravel the depths of her heart, you will only leave disappointed. That is why you must clear your mind of judgment and allow her to fill in the blanks for you.

You’re simply admiring the cover of the book. You don’t know the story yet — you only have ideas of what it may entail. Far beyond what you see lays the chance of pure disappointment and the loss of a beautiful opportunity. Are you willing to take the risk?

But perhaps it is better for you to stay in love with the idea, because the idea may be far greater than what reality has in store for you. Then again, what if she is able to surpass what your mind has composed, and knocks you right off your feet, falling head over heels? What if she ends up fulfilling everything and more than what your heart desires?

That's highly unlikely, but you can give it a shot anyway.

January, 2013.

We’re pretty and we’re sick.
We’re young and we’re bored.

”I think everyone can benefit from being an *******.” I say as I tap the end of my cigarette stick with the tips of my fingers. I proceed to take another inhale of bliss and exhale toxin, a veil of white shrouding the spaces in between us.

Leon takes the cigarette from my lips and takes a puff instead, which brings a scowl to my face. I let him keep the last one anyway, because he probably needs it more than I do. Not to mention he can’t just walk into a liquor store and buy a pack for himself, because corpses can’t dawdle back and forth in this city. Or anywhere, for that matter. Mental note: retrieve another pack tomorrow. I’m gonna need it.

"An *******? You’re funny as hell, Derek." Leon scoffs in disbelief and hurls the cigarette stub at my face, immediately causing me to retract. “I see the guilt in your face when you **** the trail of ants at your kitchen counter. *******.”

I make a face and protest instead. “Uh, no **** — those are insects. They didn’t hurt me. I just gotta **** them, because… wait a minute, why the **** am I justifying my actions to you? *******, *******.”

Leon’s laugh is surprisingly rich and full of splendor at that moment, and I can’t help but to laugh along. We’ve always been like this. We met in kindergarten and we both liked Pokemon a whole lot. We used to bring our cards to school, then that switched up to becoming fanboys of Digimon, then Beyblade, all the way to Transformers — so on, so forth. The point is, we were best friends mainly because of these kiddish cartoons (which I still watch, by the way), and we were happy. I mean, yeah, we would occasionally flock over to the girls during lunch break and compete, but it was mostly just about us. You and I, Leon and ‘Rek, Sam and Bumblebee — we were two peas in a pod.

We fought, too. We often got into fist fights by the lake after school when we liked the same girl, and at other times it was based on masculinity and a game of 'who is the real man' — which made absolutely no ******* sense, but it worked. After we duked it out, we bought some ice cream at seven-eleven and everything was okay. I guess you could say he was my best friend. He didn’t get me at all, but at the same time… he did. He understood me better than anyone else, even though we never really talked about sentimental *******. You don’t really need any of that with someone like Leon. He gets it without an explanation. He just knows.

Then he moved to Seoul during sophomore year.

I was a little upset, yeah. Just because I didn’t have anyone else to pick on and argue with over the last burger on the table. We had Kakao and Facebook though, so I wasn’t too sad about it. Said he would come back anyway, and he promised to come back strong. He was taking wrestling over there, so I took boxing. "I’ll beat you one day!" And yeah, that sounds like a threat, but to me, it was just another way of saying, "I’ll see you soon, and you better be strong by the time I come back!" I knew this was good for him.

At least, I thought it was.

When you get a phone call at four in the morning about blahblahblah — he died — blahblahblah, you don’t really know how to react at that moment. I thought it was just a prank call at first, but I kept listening. I didn’t cry that night. I didn’t really cry after it, either. I never did. I was a little angry at him, actually. Wanted to sock the dude in the face and duke it out by the lake again. But I knew that wouldn’t happen, so I just let it go. The thing is though, I can’t let it go. When someone tells you that your own best friend commits suicide, you begin to question a lot of **** going on in this world.

He was the strongest guy I knew, the one person I could fight one-on-one without feeling bad about it. He knew how to take my punches and I sure as hell took his. He was the only one who could eat ten burgers per seating with me, instead of criticizing me. And best of all, we danced. Together.

That same guy was the one who struggled with depression, the one who got bullied every ******* day at his new school in Korea, and the only things he could tell me through messages were ******* along the lines of, "It’s great over here," and “I’m having fun,” which also led to, “I wish you were here with me.”

Maybe he didn’t consider me as much of a best friend, because he did a great job at hiding it from me. Out of everyone I know, I didn’t expect him to take his own life. The fact he did do it… meant something. It meant he really wanted to die. Who am I to determine that for him, though? I don’t know.

I just kind of miss the guy.

I don’t smoke because I want to. I smoke because I think of him with every rainfall that comes. I think of him at the depths of the night when I gaze out at the city lights, because we used to take photos of them all the time. Thinking we were fancy hipsters and ****. Life was fun, and I felt alive — now I feel as if I’ve grown a tad dull.

I thought I would have forgotten by now, but apparently not. I don’t know, bro. I miss you. More than I… ever expected myself to. You’re the older brother I never had.

I step onto the cancer stick on the concrete ground, reducing it to ash and dust. I look out one more time before walking back inside.

"I’ll see you soon, Leon."

I'm tired.
Really tired.

Get attached to the sensation of detachment.
It's an ironic statement, but it describes me so well.

It would be easy to end things right here.
So, so easy.

I would say more, but I'm tired.
Tired of absolutely everything.

"Listen, my life is nothing worth talking about."

It's a typically made remark, because I was so used to it. Yet there’s a fragment of my mind that wants to beg people to stay, to listen — because I miss the feeling of being valued. I'm a reclusive sociopath who basks in the thought of being alone, but I feel lonely too. The type of loneliness that eats away at my insides, devouring me whole.

"Your life does mean something.”

That's what I *want someone to say.
No, words are easy to say.

To reiterate, that's what I want someone to genuinely feel.
Hah, as if.

"Don’t lie to me," I would scoff bitterly, "you don’t give a **** and I know that. I can see right through you.”

This is partly true though, because not only have I grown insightful over the years, but I have experienced this one too many times. I might come off happy, but in reality I'm just insecure. I'm afraid, and I often find myself feeling depressed. Not that I would ever admit to such a thing, because I have always perceived this aspect of myself as weakness.

So I push some more buttons.
Who gives a ****, right?

"I don’t need your ******* pity, or your petty concerns. In a few years, I’ll probably be dead, and no one will care. People might pity me. They might worship me now, claiming me to be some type of ******* genius. They’ll feed me compliments. Yet what do I do with all of that? Can I ******* sell it? Buy a ******* mansion with it? Or, oh, I don’t know — a ******* stable family? Because anyone can buy someone with money, man. It’s so ******* easy, because people are superficial beings with nothing but greed corrupting the depths of their ******* souls.”

I know what it’s like to be lonely.
But to see it break me apart like this.
For some strange reason, I find it pathetic.

Comfort.
It's something I haven't gotten used to.
So I stare at my reflection instead.
In the mirror I oh-so-hate.

"I’m so sorry."
But am I really sorry to myself?
**Or is this just another excuse?