Even After Changing My Phone Number, I Couldn't Stop Writing. A Confession of a Certain 'Talkative Loneliness' | Self-Introduction

“Sometimes, other people's desires enter my body like air.”

—I have always been hopelessly bad at talking.
Words get stuck in my throat and refuse to come out properly.

When I was a child, my place was always on the long piano bench.
In a room filled with soft sunlight, I would practice until I felt satisfied.
I think that is what made me who I am.

Inside, my heart was always so talkative that my throat felt scorched,
but I didn't know how to let it out.

On nights when my heart felt so crowded I thought it might break,
I would always open a Bach score.
Even when my vision blurred with tears,
I kept my fingers moving.
That was how I held myself together.
The dead within those scores became much closer friends to me
than any living person.

When the final note dissolved into the space,
a feverish sense of exhilaration remained.
In exchange, my strained emotions were emptied out completely.
That was enough.

I thought I didn't need words at all.

---

However,
at some point, the anchor of 'sound' was
lost to me.
What I, a lost soul, finally arrived at
was words.

I would scribble my emotions into a notebook,
and little by little, arrange them as if cherishing them.
I would redo it many times, and arrange it again.
Only when I was deeply submerged in the
quiet sea of printed text
was it a time when I could breathe.

At one point, everything broke.
I changed my phone number and erased my traces from the internet.

Even so,
I could not stop writing.
It was a task akin to prayer.

---

My age, my appearance, or my titles until now.
Things like that don't matter at all.

If the image of me that
suddenly floats into your mind
is the truth for you,
then I am fine with that.

After all,
the fantasy of thinking of someone
is freer than anything else,
and it is the ultimate pleasure.

Sometimes, it
a step ahead of me,
is breathing quietly and warmly somewhere.