I've been in Korea for six months now. Slowly but surely I am forgotten as I will be when I die. A quiet whisper for maybe a decade and then nothing more than a tombstone.
A consistent question amongst the white people is "Why did you come to Korea?" There are a variety of answers that any number of people. Which one you believe depends on how cynical you are on the day in question.
Some would say its fear. There are a lot of burn outs, stoners, slackers, nut jobs and general garbage from the various English speaking countries of the world. Running away from their lives. One guy lived with his parents until he was 32. Another girl is divorced and wants to binge on the nihilistic promiscuity raging over at the local majority-white bars. Trying to forget while they can what they can.
And in my cynical moments, the painfully loud solitude of the other side of the globe. I can find that in myself. But those moments fade and the good times come and I remember why I'm hear.
How could I resist the proud tradition of the young man leaving his homeland to seek his fortune and adventure in a foreign land. From the Iliad to Barry Lyndon it's a classic theme in art that I couldn't resist. This is my right. This is my due. It's practically my duty.
So in the middle of the night, with five days notice I picked up my life, said good bye to those most important to me, and hopped on a plane without blinking. Was I sad? Yes. It had to be done and it was and I couldn't regret it.
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