oblivion ; minsung

"if someday should come"

created from nothing
a vessel of life
conceived to contain
the budding flowers
the rise of the sun
the passion of breathing
uncontrollable
consuming
electrifying

──

Han Jisung is dreaming. For months without fail, it's been the same. Those words, the poems that make sense as he sees them but scramble as he wakes up. That figure, the silhouette — bottomless black against an endless white — and the face that never comes into the light.

He's awoken by the distant sound of a car alarm. His head has fallen forward, a crick settled in his neck. He gets out of the desk chair, pushes the door open and looks out over the construction site. Sometimes teenagers or drunks climb the fences, graffiti the trailers, fuck around in the ditches; he's supposed to stay up all night in the guard booth, ready to call a warning through the PA system if anyone trespasses.

Despite the exhaustion, he doesn't mind the work. He needs it. He hasn't been able to get a day job since... a while. Recently he makes his money on the night shift, selling stuff through the neighbourhood exchange, playing his guitar on the street with an upside-down hat in front of him. At this job, at least, he doesn't have to make small talk with anyone. (Nini would say he's anxious, but he's just introverted.)

Tonight, like every night, it's empty and dead quiet. Just mice rummaging through the workers' tossed takeout boxes. So he retreats into the booth and picks up his notebook. His dream has faded, leaving just scattered pieces. He spins in the wobbly chair, building the sentence back up. Those goddamn dreams are like a ghostwriter. He isn't sure what he'd sing about without the mumblings of his subconscious.

He closes his notebook, tips his hat down and leans back in his chair.

Huh, he thinks. The overhead light is on. He thought it had died.

—

The next day, after hours playing in front of the grocery store downtown, Jisung has made 12 dollars, 25 cents and a Jeju Orange Candy. He packs up once the smell of cinnamon from the bakery has made him irrationally hungry. It's a 30 minute walk home. Their house is little and yellow with a lawn of scruffy daisies shored up by crumbling retaining walls.

"Nini?" he calls into the house. She calls a hello back. He hears the TV chattering in her bedroom. He fixes two bowls of soup and carries them on a tray to her room. She's in bed, swathed in blankets, staring at the little antenna-ed TV that she's had for twenty-odd years. Jisung sets the tray on her lap, takes one of the bowls for himself and gets comfortable at the foot of the bed.

"What's going on?" He nods to the TV.

She shrugs, stirring her bowl. "I'm not sure. The clicker fell."

He looks over the edge. The remote control is on the floor next to her bed.

"Couldn't get up?" he says.

"The spirit isn't with me today."

He fishes it off the floor and sets it next to her. She starts channel surfing. The "spirit" hasn't been with her for months, and it isn't just an excuse to stay in bed.

"How much today?" she asks.

"Twelve dollars, all change. Security didn't make me move, thank God. Oh, and a little girl gave me candy."

He holds it out. She tells him to have it.

"I'll go out again tomorrow," he says. "I've gotten lucky outside that puzzle cafe before."

"I was thinking, Little. You should try to find somewhere to sing where people will actually listen. Maybe it will even pay."

Jisung snorts. "Yeah right, like someone'll pay me to wail on my shitty guitar. Sorry — my lousy guitar. It won't happen."

The TV goes black. Jisung looks at his grandmother. She's worried, tired, slouched back into the pillows.

"What?" he says.

"You're sad so often these days. Singing for people makes you happy. I wish you would be happy."

"Sure, well... someday. I feel the same way, you know. I want the same for you."

"My someday has passed."

He clenches his teeth, getting off the bed to clean up. "That's stupid, don't say that."

"This is your life, Little. I just wish I could know you're happy before I..."

Jisung stalls in the doorway. He knows. He knows he'll have to let go of her. But he doesn't want to believe it. They lost Grandpa just a few months ago.

"There's a lounge," he murmurs. "They've let me play before when there's a cancellation. I'll call them."

Her lips pull up, weakly and happily.