The Illness called Longing

March 9th marks the first anniversary of the passing of my friend, Mr. Lim Geon-sik. We still vividly remember his gentle nature and calm smile. I hope these words bring a small measure of comfort to his widow, Mrs. Lim Jeong-soon, who is left behind.

Before he departed this world, Mr. Lim left behind a poem titled "If This Body Were a Bird." It was a deeply sorrowful and touching poem. One passage from it reads:

My body aches,

yet I can bear it.

But there is one illness in me that cannot be cured:

the illness called longing, deep within my heart.

As I grow older, tears fall on their own.

The small village appears just below my eyes as if I could reach out and touch it. A place where, if I were to call out, my older sister would surely come out smiling and waving—Kaesong, my hometown, a famous land of ginseng, a beautiful river and mountain. I left the grave of my childhood there.

If this body were a bird,

I would perch on the tree branch visible just across the way.

When will I ever go to my hometown?

Already, it has been 70 years

since I left my home.

Under an alien sky,

even when I try calling out, "Sister,"

there is only the heartbreaking echo circling in the empty air.

Mr. Lim lived his entire life harboring this loneliness in his chest. Perhaps each of us also carries at least one hidden pain in our hearts that no one else knows about.

I am reminded of what happened during the 3rd-anniversary celebration of the Bio Gathering. That day, Mr. Lim sang the song "Gagopa" (I Want to Go Back). We responded with a standing ovation. Yet, I heard a subtle trembling in his voice.

That trembling was not a mere vocal technique. It was his life itself.

The parting of a seventeen-year-old boy who left thinking, "I will be back in four days," but turned into a never-ending 70-year wait; his longing for his older sister; his responsibility toward his wife; the love he could not let go of until the very end... All of it was contained within the resonance of that single tone. That was why tears came to our eyes.

Looking back, Mr. Lim Geon-sik lived his life embracing the incurable illness of loneliness through song. Singing became his comfort, his hope, and ultimately, his life. That is the quiet legacy he left behind for us.

We, too, may have illnesses. We may experience loss. We may have a longing that cannot be fully expressed in words. But that is not the end of life. That pain can become a song, it can become a prayer, and it can become love. Perhaps longing is not an illness, but proof that one's love runs deep.

Although Mr. Lim Geon-sik has physically departed, his love still remains within the Bio Gathering. His poetry still breathes. Love does not disappear; it only changes its form.

Even now, I remember the song from that day—the song he sang with a trembling voice.

It was not weakness; it was longing.

It was not fear; it was a love that never fades.

When he sang, he was returning to his hometown.

And we, who listened to that song, also returned for a moment to the hometown of our hearts.

At his memorial service, I spoke these words:

Your trembling voice—

It was not weakness; it was longing.

It was not fear; it was a love that never fades.

When you sang, you came back home.

And when you sang, all of us came home, too.