Sung Ryu

“I’m his religion, his whole world. Every time I remember that I want to die.”

My inspiration ran dry and only my monstrous ego fattened with each day.

So, my dream was a sin. No, it wasn’t even a dream.

Dreams. They were a mirage, blotched with ugly feelings like vanity, ambition,

Pure dreams were meant for talented filmmakers who could afford to enjoy their jobs. Glory was meant for them, too. Film, art in general, only revealed its true face to hardworking geniuses, not hardworking mediocrities. I covered my face with my hands and sobbed. It was difficult to accept that fact. The moment untalented people clutch at the mirage of dreams, it slowly eats away their lives.

Grandpa was, at the end of the day, just a guest passing through my room. This strange old man—the old man who had to stand helplessly in the rain on an unfamiliar street, a nobody in other people’s eyes, who would be remembered as a failure of failures—sat across from me pretending to look around the room.

He was the one who’d raised me and carried me on his back while Mom went out to work. It was under his care that my flesh and bones grew and my blood flowed. I felt that I owed Grandpa a debt in spite of the people who said filial piety was just an ideology. I had done nothing for him, material or immaterial. Maybe that was why I strove harder to turn my back on him.