✟ NO CHURCH IN THE WILD ✟ { ft. @snjaein }
it’s unlike him to be like this, but perhaps that’s just the trend as of late — nam yoonsu feeling much unlike himself (at what point does a trend become the norm?). one year ago at this hour, he’d be contently buried in bed, sheets hinted with expensive perfume (either his or that of whoever lies besides him) and the only worry being how he’d nurse back a nasty hangover when he rises some hours later. now he jolts awake at crack of dawn, heart pounding and brain whirring with untamable, unwelcome thoughts. bits and pieces of everything, grabbing, clawing, screaming for his attention all at once. it makes him wonder what the hell he’s been dreaming of lately, of what’s been chasing him over the cliff’s edge in the realms of his unconscious. if he were being completely honest with himself, he should already know — but he’s not.
instead, he blames the months he spends wasting away on his uncle’s countryside ranch, being an utter nobody. it’s killed his vibe, muddied his shine, something like that. apparently it’s fucked with his circadian rhythm too, cursed him with this sporadic strain of insomnia. at least he’s back in seoul, an actual civilization where there are actual somebodies to meet, things to do, money to spend — it makes him feel more like himself again, more like ‘elias.’ but how is it that he feels more on edge than ever?
it’s another one of those restless nights that bleeds into early morning. again, at least he’s back in seoul, where there are places to walk around, scenery that’s not just another mundane field of whatever grain they’re growing nowadays. maybe it’s not a grain. he wouldn’t know. anyways, today he strays away from his usual walking loop, wanders into a neighborhood completely foreign to him — though perhaps that could be said for the rest of this city and country.
he comes by a church now, an unassuming establishment he would’ve paid no heed to on any other day. after all, church is no place for a man like him. he’d been a few times when younger, back when his parents thought it’d help their image to be devout to something other than their business. then they concluded religion was nothing but a sham, a last resort of faux hope for the weak, poor, and desperate — of which they were none, clearly.
yet somehow he decides to pause in front of it. clearly, he has not been himself lately. clearly, he still is not weak, poor, and desperate. maybe just the latter. and to his defense, this doesn’t seem like just any plain, old church. plain, old churches don’t advertise the second coming of god on its doors. on second thought, maybe some would; but surely they wouldn’t claim that the second coming of god lives here, in some unremarkable alley of seoul, in the year of the lord 2022. even his blasphemous ass knows that. at least they know how to draw attention, he’ll give them that. hey, maybe they did tarot card readings too. so that yet another person could remind him how he’s royally fucked himself.
whatever the excuse is, he can’t simply walk away. he shuffles his feet in place, looks around surreptitiously left and right, then once more; as if there was anyone out here to see him entering. evidently there is not. he figures if this was some divine doing, that he come across this place, he’d let it happen — he’s a believer in fate in this way. with some newfound confidence, he shoves through the front doors ( one should always make a grand entrance, he thinks), half-expecting to interrupt some holy ceremony or gregorian chant. but contrary to his imagination, the halls are empty. well, almost empty.