#change you cannot control or prevent that ends in you vanishing in a blinding light. something something

[mojaves]

need to make a guy who is some sort of fallen angel or whatever and is slowly morphing into an abstract horror

[mca-attack21]

The Parting of Ways

This imagine is based off of Episode 13 of season 1 with the 9th Doctor and the reader. It can be read as part two of “Bad Wolf” or as a stand alone imagine. Enjoy! Word Count: 1920  This is my Masterlist!

You were still trapped on the Dalek ship. But you didn’t lose hope, after all the Doctor had told you he was coming for you. And to date he had given you every reason to believed him. This however did not mean that you were not scared. On the contrary, you were terrified. You had already seen one Dalek kill hundred’s of trained soldiers and now you were in a room with thousands of them. They questioned you about the Doctor, asking you to predict his next move. And then they made you watch as they bombed the TARDIS. You watched it disappear into nothing. 

You started to lose hope when you found yourself inside the TARDIS. One of the Daleks had been beside you and aimed his ray at the Doctor. “Get Down!” you yelled and he ducked just in time. Jack quickly fired at the Dalek killing it instantly.

After the shot, the Doctor rushed towards you, hugging you tightly. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in years.” you breathed taking in his familiar scent.

“I told you I’d come for you” he whispered.

“Never doubted it” you assured.

“ I did. You alright?” he asked pulling away to look you over.

“Yeah. And you?” you asked.

“Not bad, I’ve been better.” he said as he stepped towards the Dalek remembering that this whole thing was far from over.

“Hey, don’t I get a hug?” Jack said from the console.

“Oh come here” you answered, arms open.

“I was talking to him,” Jack joked before pulling you close. “Welcome home”

“I thought I was never going to see you again” you replied.

“You were lucky, that was just a one shot wonder. I drained the gun of all its’ power supply. Now it’s just a piece of junk,” he said referring to the shot that took out the Dalek as his tossed the gun aside.

“So what do we do now Doctor? There are thousands of them out there and we could barely take down one?” you asked.

“We go see what they want” he said before exiting the TARDIS,

“Doctor they’ll kill you,” you screamed running after him.

And they tried, all blasting at him simultaneously. But it was of no use. He had a force field around him. After a long conversation the doctor had discovered that the emperor of Daleks had survived the Time War and used humans off of earth to create a new line of Daleks. The Doctor summoned you and Jack and went back into the TARDIS. He needed a plan. There were so many Daleks and so little time. The Doctor was trying to create a Delta Wave to destroy all of them at once. But the problem was that they were already headed to the ship and these things take time.

Jack had created a defense plan and was preparing to put it in action. He went over to the Doctor saying “This has been fun,” he said.

You caught him off guard, cutting him off with- “Don’t do that! Don’t act like this is goodbye we are with the Doctor. He’ll figure it out in the end.”

He put his hands on your face and looked into your eyes, “You, Y/f/n Y/l/n, are worth fighting for” and then he kissed you.

He went back to the doctor, “I wish I never met you, Doctor I was much better off as a coward,” he said before kissing him. “See you in hell then,” he replied before running off.

As you and the Doctor were finishing off the wiring for the wave, you spoke up, “Suppose-”, but then you stopped. You knew if there was any other way out of this the Doctor would have already came up with it.

“Suppose what?” he asked.

“Oh nothing, I was just thinking that it would be nice if we could just go back in time and prevent this from happening. But I know that isn’t how it works” you answer.  

“There is something the TARDIS could do. It could take us away. We could leave. Let history run its course. We could go somewhere else. Marbella in 1989?” he said avoiding your eyes.

“Yeah, but you’d never do that. You couldn’t leave all of these innocent people here to die. That’s not who you are.” you answered with certainty.

“No, but you could ask. It never even occurred to you, did it? “ he replied

You were silent for a moment, “I choose this. I choose you. Always have, always will. I know what I signed up for, saving the universe comes with risks. And I wouldn’t change any of it.”

Just then buzzing went off. The delta wave was officially online. It was just a matter of time before it was ready. The Doctor rushed over to the computer to see how long it needed. All hope vanished from his face.

“It’s bad isn’t it?” you questioned.

“It is bad, but if we go in the TARDIS I can use that energy to speed up the process,” he said excitedly as he ran inside you right behind him, “stay here and hold this down, I’m going to go restart the connection,” he said before leaving.

As soon as he exited the TARDIS he dropped his façade. The truth was that there was no way out on this one. Which is why he had to send you home, he had to know you were safe. That way his life would not end in vein.

When the TARDIS started moving you realized what he had done. You ran towards the door trying to open it. You didn’t know how to stop it. You were pounding on the door when a hologram popped up.

It was the Doctor:

“Y/n. If you are seeing this message we must be in danger. And I mean fatal. I am dead or about to be in a second’s time. And that’s okay. I hope it is a good death. I made a promise to keep you safe and that is what I am doing. The TARDIS is taking you home. I bet you are fussing and moaning now. Typical. But hold on and just listen a bit more. The TARDIS can never return for me. Emergency Program One means I’m facing an enemy that should never get their hands on this machine. So this is what you should do. Let the TARDIS die. Let the old box gather dust. No one other that you can open it, no one will ever notice it. Let her become a strange little thing on a street corner. And if you want to remember me you can do one thing, just one. Have a good life. Do that for me Y/n”

The TARDIS stopped and he was gone. You peeked outside to see that you were in fact home. But that was the thing, the doctor had never asked you about your family. He hadn’t known that he was the closest thing to family you had had in a long time.

You started to walk away trying to clear your head and figure out what you could do. That was when you saw it. The words BAD WOLF. They had been everywhere, you had thought the were a warning but maybe not. They were in the future too, with the Doctor 200,000 years in the future. That is when it hit you. When the Slitheen tried to open the the wormhole that would collapse the earth. The Doctor had hit a button that opened a panel into the heart of the TARDIS. The TARDIS was telepathic, she could hear you and take you to him. There is no way she would want her Doctor to suffer.

After hours of trying different buttons and levers and every possible combination of the two (okay maybe not every combination). You finally figured it out. The door slammed shut and the panel opened you looked into her and willed her to return to him. The light overtook all of your senses. All of time and space was coursing through your veins. You didn’t even hear the TARDIS lift off.

-------------------Meanwhile--------------------

Everything was ready, all the Doctor had to do was pull down the lever and there would be no more Daleks. He would be killing billions of innocent humans, but if he didn’t every race would be in danger. He had no choice.

“You really want to think about this,” he urged the emperor as the room started to fill with Daleks, “I pull this trigger and no more Daleks.”

“I want to see you become like me. The Doctor  the great exterminator. What are you coward or killer?” the emperor snapped.

The Doctor hesitated. When did he become so much like the things he was fighting against? “Coward. Coward any day” he answered preparing himself for what he was sure would follow.

“Then you will be exterminated,” the Emperor spoke.

Just then the TARDIS started to materialize. The Doctor didn’t understand. He turned to look at it and was taken aback when the doors open. He had to shield his eyes from the light. It was blinding.

“What have you done?” he demanded as the light faded ever so slightly.

“I did what I had to do. It was the only way to save you,” you answered

“You looked into the time vortex. Y/n- no one is meant to see that. Not even me.” he cried realizing how dire the situation was.

“This-Is-An-Abomination” on of the Daleks screeched.

“Exterminate” another one said as it tried to blast you. You merely returned the energy and looked at your Doctor.

“This is what was meant to happen. It is always what happens. I know that now. This is how I become Bad Wolf, I’ve lead myself here. To this. To save you.”

“Y/n you have to stop this now! You’ve got the entire vortex running through your head. You’re going to burn!” he pleaded with you.

“It will all be worth it as long as you are safe. I can end this, the Dalek’s can be stopped once and for all.”

“You cannot hurt me I am immortal” the Emperor exclaimed

“Nothing can ever truly be immortal. Everything has a weakness. I can see the whole of time and space. I can see every atom of you existence of your essence and I can divide them. Ending the time war once and for all,” you say as the Daleks begin to disappear around you.

The Doctor took a cautious step towards you, “Okay Y/n, you’ve done it, I’m safe now. The Daleks are gone. Now let go of the vortex energy.”

“How can I let go of this? I can save him. I can-” you resurrected Jack before gripping your head, “but why does it hurt?”

“Nobody is meant to harness that much power. You have to let go or it will kill you,” he pleaded.

“I can see everything. All that is, all that was. All that ever could be. It’s beautiful and terrifying” you whimpered starting to lose control.

“That is what I see all the time. Doesn’t it drive you mad?” he asked steadying you.

“I’m sorry, i’m so sorry,” you struggled.

“It’s okay, come here” he said kissing you and extrapolating the Vortex power until your body went limp in his arms. He returned the power to the TARDIS and then carried you to the Med-bay. He had no idea if you were going to be okay or not. Nothing like this had ever happened before. And just to make things worse he could start to feel the regeneration energy coursing through him. So he tapped into your mind.

“Y/n when you wake up. I will be different. You see- timelords have this little trick we do to escape death. I’ll still be the same doctor just different. And I just wanted to say that you and me we were fantastic. Truly fantastic!”

And then it happened he screamed as every cell in his body died. And he morphed into the new doctor just before passing out on the ground beside you.

[cherryjuicegf]

Wraith

A/N: So i guess im gonna post this here cause im insecure and i need attention. Anyway, have some angst in first place with 6 more chapters coming if you like this one. I'm bad at descriptions, guess the theme from the title. Hope you enjoy (?), I would really appreciate an opinion to go on!

Chapter 1st

Aftershocks

Silence. Strange as it is, silence can be so quiet, so calm and peaceful, yet so insufferably loud and overwhelming at the same time. Silence can either fondle tenderly one's skin to sleep or violently grab their head and mercilessly smash it on the wall, until egoism gives its place to begging, and the love of death is stronger than the love of life. Silence may fill the busy mind with gentleness, offering rest, a soft pillow for one to bury their head and close their eyes, silence feeling like an old friend. Adversely, silence can be like an enemy to an empty mind, full of sorrow and darkness, a sea of despair that deepens and deepens along with silence, bonging the ears with doom and denial, slowly creating a new world of illusions, the world of the crazy, the world where everything remains the same, a speculation of what could have been, a private reality where the dead and the living cannot be told apart neither by the mad nor by the sober who watches the collapsing from the distance. Either way, silence is always there, either for comfort or pain, either to empty or to fill instantly one's world with dear people or twirling shadows of the ones who were, the ones who are and the ones that will never be.

No one wants to be alone, not even with himself. And that is where inhuman illusions take the place of the empty air, phantoms, ghosts of the past, a desperate attempt for company and compassion from the ones that are gone and remain alive in memory and only. Those are the immortals, the ones that leave their mark like a scar on the hearts of the ones they leave behind, on the words of an inked sheet of paper, on the floor of a bedroom, on the pavement of the street, on the walls of a café. Those are the ones that come back. Not in the mind. Nothing remains in the mind. They're all real, as real as a shadow can be. They come back to caress, to help, to torture or to help by torturing or to torture by helping. It always depends on the amount of pain and guilt and denial the one left behind carries on their shoulders. The visited are the ones who live on in acceptance. The haunted are the ones who go on in sorrow and denial, without even knowing if they are alive anymore. No one remains alone, either they see them or not. We think we can control them, we say. Everything is in the mind. They can go away whenever we tell them. Oh, no. No. They control us. And as soon as a life gets haunted, the light of the sun becomes a hard thing to acquire, a blessing and sometimes something never seen although shining in the eyes. As soon as a life gets haunted, it is not a life anymore.

"Jehan?"

The young man slightly flounced at the sound of his name and turned his head to glance behind him, closing the old book he was holding, using his thumb as a bookmark. He looked at his friend who had now approached him near the couch and smiled, slightly tilting his head.

"Hey..."

He faked a smile and nodded passively, sitting beside him with a snort. Jehan shook his head compassionately.

"Grantaire..."

A deep sigh escaped Grantaire's lips and he squeezed Jehan's hand in his, grinning timidly.

"Are you okay?"

Jehan raised his eyebrows and chuckled softly.

"Physically?", he tried to hide his sarcasm in a nod, "Yes, I've been okay for a week now."

Rarely did he express himself with sarcasm, he wasn't used to it anyway. It had been a while that he discerned it appearing swiftly in his everyday speech. Maybe that way he could add a little life in the air that made them suffocate with open windows. He had changed. They both had.

Grantaire shook his head snorting.

"Right...", he muttered abstractly as if trying to bring himself back to reality. "Your wound is healed so..."

Jehan sighed. His wound was healed, yes. He didn't suffer the pain of the bullet anymore. The pain of the loss was stronger anyway. You can't stop the bleeding of the heart.

"I'm alright, Grantaire...", he said as if forcibly and looked him in the eyes. "I can't say the same about you though."

Grantaire didn't answer. He just stared at him absently for some seconds that felt like a century to him. He had lost track of time. He couldn't say what day it was. Every minute seemed like a day, every day like a year. He couldn't see the sun though it being reflected in his eyes. The stars were no more than candles lighting the sky. He remembered the sunset after night had fallen. And when he looked out the window to see it, a vain attempt to lighten his face, it was not there. It was lost. It was always lost.

He bowed his head, awkwardly folding the fabric of the blanket. He couldn't face him, he knew it was too much for him. Jehan swallowed worryingly.

"How many today?"

Grantaire felt his hands sweating. His heartbeat fastened for a moment. Why lie? It wouldn't serve anything anyway.

"Three...", he mumbled and bit his lip. "For now."

"Grantaire, look at me."

Jehan's voice, though gentle, sounded more demanding than usual. He raised his head and stared at him anxiously.

"You must stop doing this to yourself, Grantaire", he said emphasizing each word and shook his head. "You have been drinking too much, I...", he snorted with a sad chuckle, "That insane, Grantaire."

Grantaire smiled bitterly and raised his eyebrow.

"If it has to do with sanity, then mine is lost anyway."

Jehan didn't answer. He just fixed his eyes upon him dejectedly, feeling another part of his heart breaking in pieces. He watched him every day, drinking more and more, trying vainly to put an end to his pain, as if wine would drown his sorrows away. Oh, he was losing him. He was losing him too.

"I can't watch you suffer everyday because of this..."

"Because of what?", Grantaire interrupted him ironically and nodded. "Because everything has gone to hell? Because all of our friends are dead? Because all your dreams vanished? Because I lost the only person that has ever shed a bit of light in my life? Because of all these?", he almost laughed trying to dry the tears that had flooded his eyes ready to fall and his voice became low and sharp. "Well in my view, Jehan, it's my duty to suffer because of these."

Jehan felt shudders passing through him. He was right. He was always right. Oh, God who was he trying to deceive? Everything was lost. He still couldn't believe it, he didn't want to believe it. His whole life was built on hope, his dreams pictured a future so joyfull and bright and filled with ambitions. And now suddenly everything had turned to ashes, while he worshiped the fire burning them as the flame of hope.

And yet, he didn't want to admit it. Not in front of Grantaire. Because he knew he suffered much more than him, because he knew how much he loved Enjolras and what his death had cost him. And he shouldn't represent another bottle of wine that pulled him down to his knees. He tried to light him up, he knew it was vain but he tried. Because he owed it to him.

Grantaire stood up abruptly and made to turn his back but his friend's voice behind him stopped him.

"Wait, Grantaire...", Jehan snorted and took his hand looking at him in the eyes. "I miss them too, alright? And it hurts way more than a wound once did. But...", he tried to fake an encouraging smile, "We're still alive. And there's still hope."

He knew he wouldn't achieve anything with his words. He could almost predict the answer. Grantaire pulled his hand with a cold look and shook his head.

"I hate hope", he stated and fixed his look on Jehan, his eyes sparkling as though with rage. "This crazy hope took everyone I loved away. And I'd rather be dead and with them than alive and damning my fate."

Jehan didn't answer. His eyes clouded over. Grantaire felt hot tears wetting his cheeks. Jehan understood. He knew he did. But his sorrow was so blinding that he had no time to show compassion for anyone. He wasn't like him anyway. He never had hope by his side.

"You have to try, Grantaire, I know it's hard...", Jehan didn't manage to finish as Grantaire's look made him freeze.

"I have tried", he snapped. "I have tried too hard. But it's vain once more...", he made a pause as he stared at his friend and then chuckled sarcastically. "Why do you care anyway?"

Jehan's eyes suddenly flashed and he flounced up abruptly leaning on the couch, stubbornly ignoring the pain whipping his leg. His words suddenly became loud and sharp.

"Because you are my friend, Grantaire", his voice almost cracked. "And because you saved my life... I have to care about you, why can't you understand?"

"You have to stop!", Grantaire growled and wiped a tear that prevented his vision without taking his eyes off Jehan. "And believe me, you would have been happier if I had let you die."

Maybe he would regret those words later. But now his heart was too sharpened to think. Of course he would be happier. He had barely gained anything by surviving. A wound that would never heal, a fake hope and a friend that was already dead.

He turned and headed to his room anxiously, his steps heavy and unstable.

"Then why?"

He stopped. He didn't want to turn. He didn't want to face him. He bit his lips trying to prevent more tears from flowing down his face and put his hand on the door as if he searched for somewhere to lean his body. He bowed his head.

"Because I had to save someone."

He disappeared in the dark. But Jehan didn't move. He stood still staring at the door, his fists clenched in an attempt to hold back the sobs choking him harrowingly. He closed his eyes. Oh, God. He was afraid. He was so afraid he could hide himself in his friend's hug and stay there forever only to prevent him from going away. But he couldn't. Because his friend was lost long ago. He was lost there in the barricade, among the others that fell. And now he was nothing more than a ghost trapped among the living.

Grantaire came out the room putting on his coat and without aversing his eyes from his feet, he made to leave, heading to the door. Jehan swallowed, his eyes following his movements.

"Where are you going?"

He felt his heart fluttering, his breath became shaking. Grantaire looked at him as though ashamed and clenched his fist.

"I...", he howed and raised his head with a look full of guilt. "I don't know..."

Jehan didn't answer immediately. Oh, he knew. And if he actually didn't, the road would always lead him there, as if the place was attached to him, refusing to let go, as if his soul had become one with this place. Home. He was going home

He snorted, feeling tears wetting his eyes.

"It's raining...", he mumbled hesitantly and touched awkwardly his long hair falling on his shoulders. Grantaire nodded indifferently and shrugged.

"It's okay..."

They remained staring at each other for some minutes, feeling the despair mercilessly devouring them as angst was ripping their heart out of their chest. Grantaire felt the rain pulling him even more to get out. And yet, as if a hand was gripping him, he didn't move. Maybe it was Jehan's look fixed on him that stirred in him so much guilt for abandoning his friend after he was the one who took care of him after the barricades. Maybe it was his love for this man, the memories that hit him like waves and made him want to turn back in time, then when everyone was happy and hopefull. Maybe it was that. Or maybe it was the fact he almost knew that after he stepped out of that door, he might not see his dear friend ever again.

But was that not what he wanted anyway? He turned his back and his fingers touched trembling the door handle.

"Grantaire!!!"

He turned his head at the desperate cry filling the room to face Jehan with rivers of tears coming down his face, his eyes stabbing him like blades of accusition, innocent and mourning at the same time, looking at him probably for the last time. He felt his knees bending. Yet he didn't move. Jehan shook his head and let a sob escape his lips along with his words, his tone low and soft as it had always been but weak, reminding him of that day, when he found him covered in blood, groaning and begging for help, even if this meant death. He shivered.

"I don't want you to go..."

And his voice cracked, drown among his sobs as he sat on the couch, resting his head in his hands and crying comfortlessly. Grantaire sighed and approached his friend with trembling hands, sitting beside him and embracing him gently as Jehan hid his face in his shoulder wrapping his arms around him and letting the tears wet his shirt, his fingers gripping the coat, refusing to let go. Grantaire swallowed and held his head tenderly, caressing his soft hair with love.

"It's okay, Jehan, I'm here..."

He was there now. But he couldn't tell if he would be there when he needed him again. And this moment wouldn't last long. Jehan's body was shaking in his hug as his voice was heard among his tears hoarse and whining, like that of a little child lost alone in the dark.

"Please don't...", he stuttered breathlessly and his embrace became tighter, "Don't leave me alone..."

Grantaire didn't answer. He didn't want to leave. Staying with him seemed like a duty though much he actually wanted it. But he couldn't take this anymore. Nights sinking in misery, days drowning in sorrow. If it was to end, why couldn't it end earlier?

He glanced outside for a moment, eavesdropping the raindrops hitting the window and a thought crossed his mind. He didn't want to condemn Jehan to the same fate as him. But they were not the same anyway. It might be better for him or it might not. He had to risk it. Neither he nor their dearest friends up in heaven would ever want him to end up alone. And this was the only way.

chapter 2

[junsojung-text]

“Kiss me Quick” by Sojung Jun Limitation-Rise-Indulgence of Senses

Sohyun Ahn (Independent Curator)

As I go up the stairs traversing the café rather overly decorated with flowers, I encounter the glass door of the gallery. On the right of the door, it reads “ß” indicating left and “Gallery”, under which are shown the symbols prohibiting filming, recording, telephoning, eating and contact. Basically, in this space, only visual is allowed, meaning I have to put all my auditory, gustatory, and tactile senses to sleep and never use any means or tools to remember any images.  I think to myself that the arrow sign is not really necessary and that there are so many “NO” signs. A place that erases all the senses other than visual, interferes with our memory and excessively controls our experience… I am not just talking about this space, but most exhibition spaces are like that.

---------

The title of the exhibition is “Kiss me Quick”. The silhouette of the title’s type is very uneven, as if it had been zoomed in from an analog printing material. Maybe the letters were not cut out well, which explains the infiltration of other letters. Anyways, “Kiss me Quick” is a name of a cocktail mixing red fruit juice, apple juice, and sparkling water, etc. with vodka as base. Come to think of it, the sixth floor of the SongEun building is occupied by a vodka company. I imagined for a second the sparkling red bitter and sweet taste in my mouth, but I soon put aside my gustatory sense since it was banned in this space. [kısmıkwık]. It is a repetition of an aspirated sound “k” and short vowel “I”. I found it even awkward to say it out loud in an exhibition hall, but the sound of the title is surely piquant and sparkling. Given the fact that the title was named after a cocktail, it is like a self-contenting sound, just like scat in jazz. There are many cocktail names out there that are overly simple and infantile associated with colors and tastes of the liquor. Red lip or sweet kiss is a very banal description, but if the taste can be felt while pronouncing the word, then the titles seems to be appropriate. Now, I decide to put behind the thought of taste and focus on “looking” around the exhibition.

A dimlight is shed upon musical score no. 5. It’s a score for stringed instruments that was hand-drawn and cut into pieces and reassembled. So much traces of a hand for a music score. Also, phrases like “tap strings with the bow”, “with the high pressure of the bow” reminded me of sounds that clang like a percussion instrument or movements of the bow bouncing back and forth from the strings, even though I am a laymanin stringed instruments. The arrow in the score seems to indicate the flow of the music. However, this arrow, unlike the unnecessary one next to the “Gallery” type at the entrance, is very disruptive in its own. The performer can surely know the order of the next music with this arrow, but he or she doesn’t have to perform in the same order. The arrow transforms this musical score into a completely different one, from all the other scores premising a safe, parallel connection. No wonder I felt like I had to move to another place after playing a piece of this score, if I were to accurately play this musical score.  

Somewhere further below the musical note no. 5, on a lightless dark wall hung two pencil drawings. They were definitely drawn with eyes closed. That is because after a cluster of lines that are grouped into one mass, then appear the lines that make their way through to find another space, and again a group of lines follow, and then they overlap with one another. These lines are not preciselymoving towards a vanishing point, but are hesitant, wandering and falling as if strayingaround the desert with no visual references solely relying on their sense of touch. Then, they are disconnected and then connected again, just like before when a piece of sound/noise was played in the musical score and then moved onto the next piece with the help of an arrow.  With the visual dogmatism now gone, the tactile senses become a series of irregular fragments. So, I close my eyes. Now,fragmentsof sounds coming out from the speaker abound. These sounds come to an irregular halt, just like a blind man who is catching his breath after passing a district of a hustling city just before crossing the road, or a person trembling with fear that he might be going around in circles even after having gone numerous sand dunes in a dessert.

The sound rides and goes over the hill. It is a white hill, whose corners are edgy, made out of wood. I follow the sound that went past the hill to take a turn along the silhouettes of the hill. There feature two simple movements overlapping at the top and bottom. One is a person going around in circles, and the other is a hand moving along the corners of the hill. The movements inside the monitor are repeated over and over. This time, they do not hesitate. The movements are repeated in a stable and resigned manner, just like the footsteps of a blind man who has alreadyentered a desert.    

The light rides and goes over the hill. As I take a turn around the silhouette of the hill, now appears a structure of a forest whose top is blocked and the bottom is open. A person who is lost the middle of a dark forest desperately struggles to look for any sound and light coming from outside to escape. On the other hand, an able woodcutter knows how to read the light and the sound inside a forest.  He is adept in reading the ruggedness of the space through sounds and light just like braille: knowing where the sound and light go,  bump and come back and where they end up being absorbed and buried.

“Exhibition to the 3rd floor. Push”, it reads at the exit. Suddenly I come to myself again. What did I do till now in this dark room? I activated my appetite and felt around the space following the light and the sounds. My gustatory, auditory, and tactile senses once banned at the entrance have now all revived, and the only allowed visual sensation has now become inactivated with few minimal functions left.

-----------

As I enter the hall on the 3rd floor, at my feet, I can see the forest that I had just seen. The light and the sounds go through the hole to flow into the upper floor. The text barely visible under the flown-in light includes secrets behind these unfamiliar spaces. The text beginning with “closes the eyes” illustrates the artist’s all forms of struggle to find the coordinates in a visually-limited state (<Metaphysical Dissection>(2017)). The invisible body is struggling hard to capture even the vague colors, play the saved images and capture the changes in speed in light of the experience. In the end, the artist seems to have realized that in orderto understand the space in a visually limited state relying on tactile sensations, she has to repeatedly read the gap between the space and her own body. That is, despite visual constraints, it is clear that gravity is in action, thus the body is used as a verticalaxis. To someone who cannot see, the angle between his body and the world becomes an important coordinate, and the space is constructed to allow an easy understanding of such coordinate. The slightly inclined boards grow larger and repetitive, and while moving forward by placing hands on each and every board one by one, one can easily reach a narrow hallway that leads us to another room. Images are projected on these incremental boards, but the movements of dancers in the images are all fragmented, and in between theseboards appear again the bits and pieces of drawing and musical scores. On the wall of a hallway leading to another room, feature repeated matte-white and glossy-white oblique lines that are inclined at a similar angle as the boards. These two types of white color are more distinct under a dim light than a strong light, and even if I completely close my eyes, I can feel around the space thanks to the different surface textures and move to the next space. At this point, a visitor, although he cannot see straight, has now learned his way to find the right path. .

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The video displayed on a slightly oblique screen is <Interval. Recess. Pause.>(2017). The title is the juxtaposition of words from 『Dictée』by Theresa Hak Kyung Cha. The voices of people are intermittent, vacillating and then suddenly dropped. Not only Theresa Hak Kyung Cha but also the characters in the video for some reason have become distant from the place of memory, and the colors, taste and touch felt in this distant place are reproduced in a language. However, why are they clinging to these indescribable difficult sensations rather than objective easy information when describing their experience back in the days? In fact our experience already has the answer.  The more quickly sensation is paralyzed, the more difficult to be described in language and relies on physical conditions, the longer they stay in your memory. These sensations are different from memories that had been intentionally stored by intelligence and called upon by language. That is whywhen we smell something, although the smell is very distinct and sharp, we really don’t have a clue as to why the smell is so distinct, so we try very hard to remember what the smell it is. A sensation always appears unexpectedly, drops suddenly and then disappears abruptly.  The performer in the video expresses this type of irresistible senses. A sensation that we cannot prevent from approaching us resembles a rainbow with its indistinct silhouette yet a strong, distinct existence.

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Finally <La Nave de Los Locos>(2016). A video installed in a skateboarding park-like space begins with a laser-close look at the painting with the same title of Hieronymus Bosch. The voice gives a hint about “you.” “This is what you tell me. The best option is not to be born. But if you are already born, not to be expelled is the best.”  This video is a letter sent to Cristina Peri Rossi, an exiled writer of the novel 『La Nave de Los Locos』. Whereas the two previous works dealt with our primary senses such as sound, light, taste, and touch, this video seems to have called upon so much information with language. The voice telling us the barbaric history where all the insane men were put together in each city and sent off on a boat to be sequestrated, suddenly reads out all these meaningless names of electronic displays, banners, and signboards, and the video points out for us each and every name of the streets the skateboarder goes through via Google Map. Moreover, it tells us the names, age, and stories of the exiled, deported and LGBT. Finally the artist tries to explain Bosch’s painting to a blind dancer in Barcelona, whose words are again translated intoCastilian, Catalan, and English. It may be quite natural for a visitor, who had groped around different dark spaces with limited senses to reach this work, finds it difficult to digest this saturated state of language.

However, if a visitor has faithfully followed the process of training (limited) senses that Sojung Jun had placed in different spaces, then he or she would be able to discover the sensuousorder that reconstructs all these abundant information. The artist zooms in on Bosch’s painting (in digital image) to the point that pixels are visible, and then allows the visitor to skim through the screen with a cursor pointing to a specific spot. This close-up was surely meant to take a closer at all the historic scenes, but it does not stop at a point when the image is most clearly visible, but goes on to the point of revealing pixels, implying that there is a hidden intention behind such attempt. This is similar to a movement of groping around the image with one’s fingertip and moving forward (the kind of pleasure felt when the pixels and the cross-shaped cursor overlap and disappear!). This tactile interpretation is soon translated into a movement of a skateboarder in Barcelona groping around the street floor. And the indistinctvoice reading out the signboards are translated into images with smudged colors. It is not about picking out only meaningful words, but the act of reading and feeling around all types and signs coming into our realm of vision is comparable to that of a blind man who has to feel around the spaces in between to move to a nearby place.  Having to do many translations to deliver a message to someone is also likened to the process of feeling around different ways towards communication. After all, all movements in this video are tactile recitation.  

Meanwhile, the exiled are subject to sympathy as they dream to “return to the times that cannot be returned to”. However, artist Sojung Jun shows sympathy (with the risk of causing ethical controversy) but also shows a long yearning for maximum level of tactile sensation that they could have felt. Those exiled, deprived of the right to stand on a solid and flat ground, need to develop a sense of touch and equilibrium tantamount to that of a surfer who can stand on the waves in the sea in order not to drown. Sojung Jun seems to improperly envy these exceptional senses of lesbian writer Christina Peri Rossi, who had exiled from Uruguay to Spain, the land of Catalans having claim their independence. The images of a blind dancer’s moves shot in infrared camera intuitively tell us that the dancer cannot see, and at the same time was a very careful way of expression chosen by the artist to opt for darkness, as she could not express someone’s disability under a bright light.  However, in Sojung Jun’s screen, we feel the gaze of sensation-driven people who indulge in the movements of dancers, who activate their senses of balance to the maximum and feel around the void in the dark. This is similar to the sensation of skateboarders taking the risk of groping around the ground even if no one really forces them to do so. The movements groping around the uneven and rugged space entail a risk of sudden fall and deprivation, making the audience to have butterflies in their stomach, but their spatial indulgence becomes the visual indulgence of Sojung Jun.

Eventually, Sojung Jun has translated all of these experimental, linguistic, historic, political and social records in an order based on senses. By the end of the exhibition, it is revealed that the title “Kiss me Quick” was a cocktail menu in the 『Le Paysan de Paris』written by Louis Aragon, and the letter types which seemed to have been wrongly cut from an analog printing materials were in fact from the menu. The title was translated into a taste by a chef, and the taste was translated again into a critic’s language. The text describing the experience of walking around blindfolded was translated into music of a composer, space of a scenographerand video of a cinematographer. And we witness the amazing rise of our senses in a feast of all these sounds, lights, colors, tastes, movements and languages. The moment we give up on the dogmatism of a single sensation or limit such sensation, all the other senses once oppressed come alive, and these awakened senses do not stop at just passively embracing external stimuli. These once banned senses invite in the stories of someone’s loss, constraints, disruption, and fall. We listen to the stories that start from the pressure spot of our skin, cochlea inside our ear, and the tip of our tongue. The reason why Sojung Jun cannot stop her indulgence in senses and why we cannot help but continue to follow on her indulgence is becausetheir stories continue to go on.

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