I've always enjoyed penning stories using a more classical style of prose. Whenever I write words like Pyunsim(片心, a piece of the heart; an inclined mind), Chonsim(寸心, a fragment of the heart; modest hidden will), Dansim(丹心, the red heart; sincere and single-minded devotion) in ways people used them in the past, bzzt, I feel something vibrate near the pit of my stomach. The impact of these words might have faded with time, but choosing to describe my heart as “pieces” or “fragments” makes it feel like I can break off chunks of it like a chocolate bar and profess my once-in-a-lifetime feelings in a casual manner.
One day, I told him that I loved him. He took my declaration lightly, as if I had handed him a bar of chocolate. All the while, powdered dust floated over the cut surface of my heart.
But he probably doesn’t know that.
Dansim—it showed not a washed-out shade of red, but the deep red of my left ventricle. I was serious, like I was digging up the most crucial part of myself. At that moment, I was as serious as the people of the past. But the stupid rugby player was not. He even laughed and told me to lighten up.
I still think you have to be earnest when talking about love and matters of the heart, I muttered to the man who was now somewhere far away. Wherever you are, whoever you love, please be careful when you profess your love. You must meticulously weed out words that will not be able to survive the moment and ripen the words chosen in a cool place before they are spoken out loud through the ribs, the soft palate, and all the other innermost parts of yourself.
If you can’t do that, it is better not to say anything.