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The Unbearable Heaviness of Being

My quest for the eternal lightness

They say you can never hear the snow fall.

But weird things do happen when you have survived the night wearing only a round-neck T and gym shorts; listening to the heater cranking up every now and then, keeping you warm from the  -20 cold outside.

Once in a while, peculiarities do occur. And most often one can easily be led into believing that it’s one of those sacred moments when one is able to connect with nature in a mystical way which others cannot. I call it post-traumatic psychosonicauditory stress. I was bloody certain that it was the skittering sound of snow on the rooftop which woke me up that morning.

Despite the conviction on my face, no one was impressed. There are many things you can claim to have heard; groans in the shower as your roommate steps on the icy cold mosaic floor or chattering teeth underneath the old comforter. But falling snow is another thing.

Then again, if our ears have fallen deaf to so much shit around us, hearing the snow fall is of course, scandalous. We were handed a 200,000 korean won discount by our agent for letting us into the crappy room.

It was a day many never saw so much snow in a long time. In fact, all around the globe, the snow created havoc that day. I almost missed my flight. Yet, it was suppose to come so silently.

I rested the pair of Fischers on my shoulders and headed for the slope. For days, the thin layer of my twin-tip alpines, which separated me from the bright mass of snow underneath, have become the only connection to my consciousness. My soles, and feet were the only decisive strength which held my life in balance – quite literally. The cold was immaterial. The crowd was non-existent.

At some point, I think something irreversible has been unleashed into the core of my being. The Czech poet spoke of the desire to fall. There is fun in colliding into groups of people and rolling over the blanket of newly fallen powdery snow – most first time skiers can tell you that. There in the vast whiteness of YongPyong, I swooshed down in the fullness of Vertigo – unashamedly basking in its glory.

Weeks later I mustered enough courage to bare it all out in the verocious northern-winter cold. I walked barefoot down to the frozen sea, where a hole in the ice was sawn, and took a dip, then ran back and jumped into the hot tub and drank cold beer. I sat in the tub which was placed outside the house, until ice formed on my head, covering my hair. I sank into the hot water and melt the ice then sat up until the ice formed again.



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