Korean Basement

I'm going to look for a girl—she is in South Korea.

September 28, 2024. The leave approved by my college starts today at 5 p.m. and ends tomorrow at 8 a.m. Starting at 4 p.m., I bid farewell to my roommate in a somewhat mysterious manner, saying that I was going to do the greatest thing I've ever done in my life. At the moment of making that decision, I thought I could be responsible for my choice—the sense of responsibility that emerged had the essence of a superstitious belief that "everything will turn out fine" (yet I did not realize that this baseless hope would eventually lead to a complete loss of confidence).

There were many factors behind this decision to go find her. At the instant I made this decision, I felt an immense strangeness toward myself; this unfamiliarity came from an overwhelming fear of myself. It was as if, for the first time, I glimpsed the complexity and depth of the abyss of human nature—the cold wind over the gaping maw of the abyss filled me with dread. This abyss, a very thing that exists within me, has far exceeded what I, its owner, can control or understand. Thus, one can easily solve problems like matrix transformations because all the formulas are laid out before you—like a map. But you can never clearly outline or describe the workings of your human nature (or the motives behind your actions) in the way you write out mathematical processes. In fact, what you think are your motives often serve only as a cover for your real intentions (take a look at the "split-brain experiments"). As the narrator, it is necessary for me to show you, the readers, how the same abyss exists within you as well. So, please allow me to ramble on, beginning from graduation day.

May 28, 2024. I graduated. Before that, I had once fallen madly in love with a girl from South Korea. But guess what? By the time I graduated, I still didn’t know her name. So for a long time, at least until I boarded a plane four months later and looked down at the brightly lit Tokyo, this love remained a mystery to me. But this haze was somehow the clearest thing I had ever encountered in my life—at least clearer than career planning, college majors, or which country to study in. I think it's because the latter are often labeled with a grand narrative, a pursuit shared by the times—individual feelings are ignored in the process, yet individuals genuinely long for their feelings to be cared for. However, in this era, it seems that only after fulfilling all worldly pursuits can ne truly believe in oneself, feeling entitled to pursue beauty—as if one must get into Harvard to deserve others' admiration and qualify for higher pursuits.

But this is actually wrong; the opportunities a person has are not determined by any prerequisites but by "whether he dares to take control of his body and dial those numbers that represent opportunities." This is what the Enlightenment called the "natural rights" that every individual is born with. Therefore, I stubbornly believe that the reason Stanford's average salary is higher than that of community colleges is not because Stanford students are smarter but because they are more "confident"—a confidence derived from "Stanford University" and simultaneously deprived of community college. Thus, I believe that as long as a person is willing to "believe in himself" and feels he "has the right to control his body," he can reach the peak regardless of his background. But this is very difficult because one's loss of confidence generally has either zero or countless instances—once lost, there are two outcomes: first, believing oneself inferior to Stanford students and thus not daring to compete with them as equals, even fawning upon them, often by belittling oneself; second, concluding, "this is all I will ever be," and then truly living out that reality. But this does not mean he is inherently "that kind of person" but rather that he can only find peace by becoming "that kind" so that he won’t be mocked for overambition. Always, there is this "other" involved—quite troubling.

After graduating high school, I went to a not-so-good university in Japan. This was not because I couldn't find a better university in another country—I thought my GPA and other qualifications were good enough. But I was simply afraid that if I applied and failed, those with better grades yet more humility (not applying to such prestigious schools) would mock me for it—yes, again, it was because of others. However, deep down, I genuinely hoped I could be better than others so I could feel a sense of self-worth—a point I forgot about my natural rights. Thus, the gap between ideal and reality forced me to compromise: not to pursue others' standards but to set my own standards, and as long as I performed better within those standards, I’d be content. This setting seemed to detach from others' evaluation systems and aligned with the trendy "don't mind others, be yourself" mantra, but the reason for establishing this self-system was not "what I wanted" but rather my anger towards others. Just like in Nietzsche's Will to Power, I felt that my rights had been deprived by those superior to me, hence my "self-awareness"; it seemed to embrace self-value, but in reality, it was an attack on mass values. So the two conditions possessed by the Korean girl I fell in love with fervently also proved this "attack"—first, she had many friends (mass value); second, she always ignored me (a challenge to my sense of entitlement). This deconstruction of "love" made me feel disgusted with all the sweet words I had said, yet when she gave me a napkin one day (responding to me), I felt that my awareness of this disgust was my personal value (a sense of self-awareness). And this distorted personal value, in my mind, even Became a reason why "I could become her boyfriend."—interesting, others felt proud because of good exam scores, whereas I felt proud because "I realized I am a disgusting person" (honestly, I think everyone has some disgusting elements inside, but isn't it a point of pride that only I am aware of them?). Conversely, when she distanced herself from me, like ignoring something I said, I found this "disgust" itself unbearable (especially to myself). Because you know what? More than anyone, I know that being "disgusting" is not good. But instead of eliminating the disgust, I chose to find something else to justify it (her). And once that cover was lifted (she ignored me), the disgust was laid bare, making me feel utterly disgusted (with myself).

August 28, 2024. I started school. The exams at the Japanese school were tough—I failed everyone. But with each additional failed exam, my desire to "go to South Korea" burned ever more fiercely, like throwing dry firewood onto a fire. I needed "rights"! And so, after struggling for half a month, I successfully booked a ticket to South Korea, using the living expenses my mother gave me —during those two weeks, I couldn’t go to 7-11 even once. Paradoxically, the hunger I endured for the sake of South Korea gave me a sense of "heroism," turning "South Korea" into the paradise I dreamed of day and night. On the way to South Korea, I went through a few emotional twists (reflecting some complexity of human nature). When I walked out of the school gate and looked back at the brightly lit school building, it filled me with loneliness—I had never before wanted to return to the crowd as strongly as at that moment. The reason was simple: I was afraid I would have to take responsibility for my actions. The act of "separating myself from the crowd" (separating from evaluation systems—believing that GPA couldn't define me, etc.) was itself a challenge to the crowd, and the glory of all challengers is to become a victor. But I was acutely aware that I was unlikely to meet that girl, meaning I wouldn't obtain the "prize" and thus wouldn't "defeat others." When I failed, I wished others would punish me less harshly, so I wanted to return to the crowd (this feeling became stronger when the plane took off).

But when I actually set foot on South Korean soil, the complete severance of the possibility of "returning" brought me some kind of peace. This peace dispelled the anxiety brought on by the uncertainty of "possibly not meeting her." To be honest, it no longer mattered whether she was really in South Korea or not. When I walked towards the bustling streets of Seoul, feeling the autumn wind whistling around me, I had already transformed into a hero admired by the world in this city where no one knew me.

At 1 a.m., I sat at a 7-11 and ordered some fried chicken. I imagined her sitting beside me—of course, she wasn’t there, and there was no one beside me. But was there really no one? Perhaps she had just gone to get me a midnight snack—in that case, I just had to wait for her. So I waited from 1 to 5. In each second of waiting, I felt my Greatness, like Sisyphus feeling his existence amidst suffering. I felt my sacrifice, though no one demanded it of me—who said that sacrifice only counts when it’s for someone else? (Dying for myself is also a form of sacrifice.)

At 6 a.m., the sun rose, and pedestrians began to appear on the streets. Wrapped in my coat, I walked the streets with a shyness I had never felt before, ashamed of my nighttime fantasies. I felt like a rat; only the desolate underground pipes were my paradise, even though I knew the sewers were where people aboveground flushed their waste—no one cared about a hero in the sewers. But luckily, I still had the ability to deceive myself, and wrapping myself in a coat during the day was an apology to others and a return to the crowd.

I looked up at the sun, and a tear fell from my eye—at that moment, I couldn’t tell if it was urine or a tear.

I thought again of a line from The Three-Body Problem. It went something like this: I prefer sunsets because after sunset comes a starry night, but after sunrise, all that’s left is broad daylight reality.

I think everyone perhaps needs a sunset, just like everyone needs a South Korea. And whether there is a girl in South Korea no longer matters.