Yongsil Jeong <Thirty years>

These days, after getting up in the morning, I would read proses. Glancing up at my bookshelf, to find one instant to sink an anxious feeling, I would touch it.

Between the conscious and unconscious the nothingness have always existed. In fact I did not know it was really something to be called nothingness. I just, it seemed to me, touched something situated outside my will. And it would call proses; to be written, to be torn, to be muddled, and so, to be wrapped in happiness which is going to disappear. I have known it is just the same instant as the other through which I had passed by so far. But I have done such exhausting repetitive behavior. I would have asked myself what these feeling signified exactly. And, yet, I allowed these instants to flow one after another. Can I do it any other ways? I might be one of those men predestined to live in an instant...

The title of this book "aged 30" seems to be showed as the turning point of life. "Thirty – the promise of a decade of loneliness, a thinning list of single men to know, a thinning brief-case of enthusiasm, thinning hair... (in The Great Gatsby)" But I should not say "commencing on this thirty years of age." I'm also 30. But the events of my life are, in a phrase Grenier once wrote in his book, only successive revelations from our own inner depth.

I cannot say that I wrote this with the intention of setting this book at naught. I would have clearly receive help from this prose. Where the help lead to was, however, just nothing. On next morning, I'll find this prose, this essay. And among nervous relief and uneasy certainty, the sky will brighten.