No One Writes Back

by Jang Eun-Jin

Like the words of an author who said that writing becomes a temptation to someone who can’t speak, someone who can’t speak articulately is also tempted to write.

It’s arrogant to think that only people can heal loneliness.”

In my mind, of course, a countless number of jobs I wanted danced around and around. On days with continuing newsflashes because of a big accident, such as an airplane crash, I wanted to be an announcer; when looking at the big chalkboard hanging in my mother’s study, I wanted to be a teacher; on days with a clear sky, I wanted to be a journalist; when the wind blew, I wanted to be a stage actor. But I could not talk to anyone about these jobs. No one would think such jobs were possible for me. Desire had a wicked habit of not knowing its place, and trying to go beyond that.

In that moment, I felt, for the first time, that nothing brings you so much joy in life as being approved of by someone.

But I couldn’t complain to my family about all the difficulties. I couldn’t, and didn’t, let on that I was having a hard time. There were bound to be difficulties in any job, I thought, and there probably wasn’t any easy way in the world to make money. Above all, I no longer wanted to be a disappointment to someone, and I was old enough that I shouldn’t be a disappointment.

They may just use up their happiness in advance, like an advanced salary. If there’s a fixed amount of happiness allotted each person, and the happiness could be allocated according to one’s will, would it be better to place it early on in life, or later? If it were me, I’d place it later on in life.

There must be a very thick darkness, unfathomable to me, beyond those eyes. A universe where no star or moon rises despite its darkness. Now that I think about it, I’d never given his darkness serious thought, or made a genuine effort to understand darkness from his stance. But with those black eyes, he looks at my wet eyes in turn one after the other, as though he can see. The eyes can’t see, but they can talk. The eyes can’t see, but I’m in those eyes for sure, alive and breathing. He sees me, and knows his universe. I’m sure that a moon rises, and stars fall, in that universe. Wajo looks at me without the slightest sign of hatred or resentment in his eyes. I feel terrible. His eyes seem to say that dogs do not know what hatred or resentment is.

At peace, I realize at last that he’d been at my side for me, not the other way around. I was happy, and never lonely, because of Wajo. For three years, I was always with someone.

Life is bearable when you have someone to write, and someone who writes you back. Even if it’s just one person.