Shine
Mortality is a heavy burden, it wears you down, it crushes you, but it makes you aware of who you are. Perhaps Jong hasn't yet understood this, even though he has made his life a channel for the support of others.
"You've worked hard. Do whatever it takes for your heart: even if something makes you cry, that's okay."
This was the message he gave others, with his calm voice, as he tried to make his listeners feel less alone when he was on the radio.
And yet all this wasn't enough for him, to the point of considering an extreme act...
I leaf through the file on him, as he lies, slightly disheveled, on the bed in my apartment, poised between a restful sleep and an endless nightmare. He moans every now and then, makes a few small twitches, but then curls up like a child in need of care and comfort.
I sigh, thinking about his case, wondering who or what wanted me to care for him. Yes, he's not a teenager, like the usual ones I receive, nor is he someone to instill the joy of living in. Because deep down, Jong is dead.
Destroyed.
Pulverized.
They've undermined his being, his soul, his heart.
I ask myself: why? What can dig so deeply into the soul of a man who's had everything in life? The gift of his voice, the magic of music and dance, of composing. Not to mention the tens of thousands of fans who idolize him like a modern-day god, who scream at his every gesture, who faint from the mere thrill of seeing and hearing him.
Yet, that god has fallen into the dust and can't rise again.
I scroll through the images in real time, and they show his funeral.
Jong doesn't know that life is going on without him, that many out there have been left dazzled and devastated by his passing, wondering what they did wrong.
It's a shame that the people who love him are wondering this, those who tried in every way to understand him, to be by his side, but who didn't fully grasp the emptiness that had taken hold of him.
His band, his musical family, SHINee, all dressed in black, carrying his coffin, hastily closed so as not to tarnish the memory we have of him. And his loved ones, his affections, the pain of a sister and a mother who can't explain why...
Time hasn't stopped, waiting for his final decision. He's dead, he's alive, he's nothing.
He's torn between two worlds, because his mind is torn between what is real and what was born inside there, grew, became a shapeless monster, devastating him and fueling that madness.
We didn't have time; he'd been Kuroshi's for a long time, and the damned man knew it; I should have seen it from his treacherous smile. And yet... He let me keep him, under the illusion of having saved him, of being able to bring him back to before all this happened.
Because Jong is something else, he reaches straight to my heart with his sweet, serene voice, with that music with melancholic undertones but dense with scents and colors.
I don't know why it fell to me, as the penultimate case, after all.
This boy—because yes, to me he has the body of a man but the aura and essence of a boy who grew up too quickly, but still young—is the key to something immense, and somewhere, the universe wanted to reward him.
And I hope he can get there, at that point, to reap the eternal gifts that humanity hasn't been able to give back to him, draining him of his immensity until he disappears, like a comet losing energy and light.
But that light is part of him, it's in his eyes and in his soul, and I'm sure I can rekindle it. With strength. With courage. With anger.
But I will rekindle it, because it's part of him. It's part of me!