Reflective Writing and Poetic Musing by Condemiang + Stories About the World

Have you ever encountered a situation where a simple visual or linguistic misinterpretation transforms into an unexpectedly funny moment? In the context of Korean language and culture, a clever piece of writing plays on just such a scenario, turning a common road sign into a source of unique humor. Imagine a road sign for a "one-way street" in Korea. In Korean, this concept is represented by the characters " 일방통행 " (Il-bang-tong-haeng) that means "One way". For individuals unfamiliar with the Korean alphabet, these characters can sometimes be visually confusing. It has been humorously suggested that a non-Korean speaker might visually interpret this sign as something akin to " 이바토해 2000 " (Iba-Tohae 2000). Here's where the ingenious wordplay unfolds. The seemingly innocuous "이바토해" (Iba-Tohae) bears a striking phonetic resemblance to " 이봐 토해 " (Ibwa-Tohae), a phrase that humorously translates to "Hey, throw up!" o...

Videos glorifying the joys and fun of raising babies are everywhere. While the intent may be to boost the birth rate, they seem to lack seriousness and sensitivity, which is disappointing. Even when adopting a pet, one must consider whether they have the means and mindset to care for it, and whether they can take full responsibility to the end. Then how much more thought and care should be given when welcoming a human life? The babies who bring such joy and laughter will grow into children, teenagers, and eventually adults. Yet these videos promote only brief moments of happiness, with no regard for the many challenges of living as a child, adolescent, or adult in today’s deeply troubled society. I can’t help but ask: “How many children have you actually raised?” Before promoting childbirth, we must first analyze and improve the reasons behind the steep decline in birth rates. The “next generation” is not just a private matter for families—it’s a collective responsibility of society. I...

A resting place where my soul may sit or lie Where a gentle shadow lays its steady trace Day or night A story I can lean on and listen always One who holds within Like brushing leaves from a bench Even if it be but the lightest burden of passing time I long to run to you to lift it away O Thee

Love of my life, I'm here, just a little distance from you. I can smell your breath, and I can hear your smile. Look at me—just for a moment— before you burn out. You, the endless whisper of my life. We cross the one-third line, from time to time. I rushed out to see the sunset—pure gold after the pouring rain. And to see your face. And to breathe you in.

Friends, look to the heavens—the ones we can see with our own eyes. But we do not truly see them. It is with the eyes of the mind that heaven comes into view.

I've never seen such a mystic panorama. It looks like your lips—but it's too cold. It looks like your nails—but it's too soft against my back.

Should it rain...... The backs of people you often see while walking down the street—they carry thoughts like melted candle wax, and in none other than their own figures, they see cars, the street, the road, and others. Why do people's backs look so lonely? Whether it's clear or cloudy or rainy, the faint and worn-out light in a corner of the city is not even enough to draw a single space of my own. Why does your back look so lonely? Whether it's clear or cloudy or rainy, you carry your weary shoulders through a corner of the city. Sometimes, even a metasequoia tree is nice, or even a common plane tree—if it's decorating above your head, walking that road from which no one knows when you'll return could be a good thing. If it’s a rainy day, even better. If you are with someone who will cover your side full of window scars, then even without an umbrella, you will s...

The day after the loud, crashing rain poured down, under the scorching blaze of the sun that replaced the rain, the sky was so clear and beautiful, as if mocking the world. After finishing work, I rushed out of the office and struggled to get to the Han River as quickly as possible, but the heavy streets of Seoul, crowded with people and vehicles packed in like crates, did not allow freedom of movement. Inside the car, I was in anguish, watching with a heavy heart as the golden sunset wilted away. I like the center. Not leaning to either side—and sometimes, only once in a while, leaning slightly this way or that—that kind of taste. But now, the bridge that would hold such balance must be too dangerous, right? Sweating profusely, I hurried along to Banpo Bridge. The beautiful sunset had already passed… And yet— The traces of the sunset mixed with the clouds and the sky, and the clumsy decorations...

When the ups and downs of life cast shadows upon our souls, and even countless joys flicker like city lights in the distance, too far to touch— O you, with just the sight of your back turned, no, with only your shadow, I can dispel the gloom. For your trace, nobler than rest, remains.

Where have all the trains gone? Those massive bodies that once thundered down the rails— their roaring presence is nowhere to be seen. — A car's thought — Where have all the cars gone? Those swarms that once flooded the roads day and night— their restless wheels are nowhere to be found. — A train's thought —

O you! My distant, far-off name— Only now do I wish to part from you. It is not I who leaves beyond this window blurred with tears, but you who lets me go. With no one to send, no one to leave, suddenly it departs— and vanishes without a trace. In this formless space where we have no true being, we are dreaming of an emergency escape. O you! My long-held name—

The spire towering above, and the cross— they no longer meet the eye with ease. Soaked in the shame of sins past, present, and countless still to come, committed in the name of "Holiness," O crimson cross, you dare not show your face while the sun still shines. Not with Your blood, but with the blood and tears of those You longed to save— those frail ones to whom You gave vision and mercy— you are stained, O cross. The days when the first place of life was truth—are gone. Gone are the dreams, the philosophy, the fervor. What remains is a hollow shell, lodged within the fourth, the fifth place of life— fitted to myths long drawn, and crude prophecies patched together. Will He come when even the final sliver of truth can no longer lift its head? The spire towering above, and the cross— even scouring the sky, they cannot be found. And in the nakedness left behind by all that has been stripped in the name of “Reason,” O white cross, you do not return—even af...

The flags of all nations, tucked away in the distant folds of my memory, waited—weary in the shadow of a corner. They once stirred the air with excitement, drawing children—ever thirsty for new delights—into the rapture of a day called Sports Festival. The sky, the flags, and the cradle of students still too unripe—they all hold the setting sun within them, divided by a single invisible border. Slightly less than a third—and yet, because of that, perhaps the sky I sought to paint came to occupy a space larger than I ever imagined. Only now, at last, can even my meager care brush past those hands that once strove to make those flags flutter. The setting sun, at times, reminds us of the border between today and tomorrow.