To You, Who Keeps Missing the Tail of Happiness
Oh, enough with the furrowed brow! You are doing yourself a disservice. That beautiful face of yours is going to waste. Come a little closer, won’t you? I’m not going to bite. I simply want to offer you a little “service.” Yes, service. In this world, everyone is so preoccupied with themselves that hardly anyone is virtuous enough to offer you a sincere, heartfelt service. So, here I am, throwing a single grain of sugar candy into the bottomless abyss of your unbearable loneliness.
You are lonely, aren’t you? Yes, I know. It’s useless to hide it. An invisible, transparent loneliness clings to your back like a heavy rucksack. When you walk through the streets, that loneliness strikes the asphalt—clack, clack—ringing out with a dry, hollow sound. You try desperately to conceal it, wearing trendy clothes or forcing a laugh. But, you, that only makes it worse. The more you laugh, the more I can feel the hollow void inside you whistling with a cold, shivering wind.
Listen closely, you. Life is nothing more than a grotesque sideshow at a carnival. Because you try to be “serious” and “live correctly,” you find yourself unable to sleep at night. You stuff your pillow with restless sorrow and stare blankly at the ceiling. But, you, rest easy. Within that very darkness lies a hidden “treasure.”
Even in Hell, It All Depends on the Tip of the Brush
By the way, you, are you familiar with a man named Hieronymus Bosch? Ah, you might have heard the name. A total eccentric from the fifteenth or sixteenth century, living in what is now the Netherlands. Have you seen his paintings? The Garden of Earthly Delights, or the like. If you saw them, you would surely be floored. There are people devouring giant strawberries, monsters marching with knives pierced through their ears, and to top it all off, a bird-headed demon swallowing humans whole and excreting them while sitting on a chair.
You probably think, “How morbid, how filthy.” Yes, it certainly is. Filthy, cruel, and beyond redemption. But, you. As you gaze steadily at those paintings, don’t you feel the muddy, unspoken things in the depths of your heart beginning to dissolve? Bosch’s visions of hell are, in fact, a mirror reflecting your inner self exactly as it is.
You long to be pure. You want to be noble, moral, and loved by everyone. But inside your belly, the monsters Bosch painted are swarming. Jealousy, vanity, lust, and above all, a terrifying degree of self-love. You are ashamed of it. You cannot forgive yourself. That is why you glare at your reflection with such sad eyes.
However, you. Bosch did not simply leave that ugliness as it was. He depicted those hellish scenes with such delicate brushwork that they appear as beautiful as scattered jewels. To paint hell beautifully—don’t you think this is the greatest “service” permitted to humanity? Your sorrow is the same. As long as you carry it as mere “misfortune,” it remains a heavy burden. But if you can view it as a “work of art” or a “story,” your loneliness will suddenly begin to hold meaning, like constellations shining in the night sky.
For the Lost Child Named “You”
How much longer do you intend to keep blaming yourself? “I shouldn’t have said that then.” “I should have chosen the other path.” Stuck in the swamp of regret, aren’t you utterly exhausted? You are too kind. And you are far too self-conscious. You have convinced yourself that the eyes of the whole world are judging you.
But, you. Shall I tell you the truth? The world isn’t paying nearly as much attention to you as you think. Everyone is busy with their own lives. No matter how deep a despair the person sitting next to them might be feeling, people are more likely to get angry that the beef in their bowl is too thin. That is what it means to be human. Cold? No, that is the salvation.
No matter how much you fail, no matter how miserable a figure you cut, everyone will have forgotten by tomorrow. So, you. You can live more freely, more haphazardly. Look at the inhabitants of Bosch’s paintings. Even in the midst of hell, they seem somewhat joyful, desperately fulfilling their own desires.
You lament that you are all alone. But, you, solitude is the original state of a human being. From the moment you slid from your mother’s body, we are all solitary travelers. Trying to force that gap closed is what makes it painful. Having the extravagant hope of being “understood” by someone is why you feel betrayed.
Love your solitude. That loneliness of yours is your own sanctuary, inviolable by anyone. When you lock yourself in your room and cry, hugging your knees, only you and your solitude are there. In this noisy world, that is the quietest, most luxurious time. You must cherish that time. Your sorrow is like sandpaper meant to polish you.
Happiness Arrives When You Least Expect It
Listen, you. Happiness is not something you can catch by chasing it head-on. If you run toward it, happiness will nimbly dodge and flee. But when you are exhausted, slumped by the roadside with a face like one of Bosch’s monsters, and you look up at the sky thinking, “Whatever, it doesn’t matter anymore,” then happiness will sneak up beside you like a stray cat.
You try to change yourself. You try to become stronger, brighter, more respectable. But, you. Give up on those efforts. You are fine just as you are. In that weak, pathetic, dishonest, and lonely state—you are fine. Because that is the only “masterpiece” in this world that God painted using Bosch’s brush.
Your failures, your shame, your despair. All of them are indispensable colors that add vibrancy to the giant canvas of your life. If those lewd creatures were missing from Bosch’s work, it wouldn’t fascinate people so much. Your life, too, is human, dear, and interesting precisely because of your “flaws.”
Now, you. Look at me once more. Smile. Yes, just like that. Your smile is far more beautiful than any paradise Bosch ever drew. No matter how lonely you are, no matter how sad you are, I will stay here by your side, continuing this service of words. You are never truly alone. Within you sleeps a thousand years of history, and in your eyes dwells an eternal light.
Where will you go now? It doesn’t matter where. Wherever you are, your loneliness will be the lighthouse that guides you. Do not fear the darkness. It is because the darkness exists that you can find the stars.
Let me say it one last time. You—you are truly a person to be loved. I love your clumsy way of living. So, do not hate yourself. Do not bully yourself. Like a character in a Bosch painting, you should just swim through this comical and mysterious world with all your might.
All right, you? It’s a promise. Drink some warm soup tonight and get some rest. Perhaps in your dreams, you can dance with those strange monsters Bosch drew. You weren’t born just to become “happy.” You were born simply to fulfill the life that is you. And that, in itself, is more than enough of a magnificent thing.
Goodbye. We shall meet again when your loneliness becomes unbearable. Until then, stay as you are—beautiful, messy, and shining brighter than anyone. For the sake of a dear lost child like you, I will be here, forever weaving stories.