Poetic Prose / Nonfiction
Letters from Technovalley
Foreword
I needed a break.
Speaking without thinking is rare for me. Each word is a choice, a reflection of ego, a shield against imagined judgments that I fear and claim to be wounded by, yet ultimately serve to please me. I am made of contradictions. Words are how I tame my thoughts. I reject the places, situations, and people that haunt me to express my thoughts—I insist I am bigger than them.
Pangyo, known as "Pangyo Technovalley," bustles with activity. Capital and cutting-edge technology flow from Seoul into this valley, cradled by mountains on three sides. It sits in Korea's second-largest city, Bundang, hosting tech giants like Naver and Kakao. From a bridge, I would observe the cars streaming into the city each morning, and, every time, I was becoming embodied by a spirit—so elusive, but it would wake me up at 5:30 every day.
July 24, 2023 (Day 69)
At the Chinese bistro, a weekly gathering of athletes, private equity analysts, and aspiring professionals. The invitations were simple until I noticed his gestures—settling bills, the probing questions, the gentle "Let me know what you need." He stood at the center, drawing all the lines to converge upon him. So slowly, everyone leaned in, ambitions now threading through him. Our gatherings, stretching well beyond midnight (unpaid labor much?), were not just about the meal but about his presence.
My boss was a politician.
He was also 26 when he became CEO at Nexon, Korea's largest game publisher. Now he's just above my cubicle, balding. And below me sits a 27-year-old manchild with ambition etched into his frown and a venomous gaze in his eyes as he watches the hierarchy above him. So memories stir—of my previous boss, sharp, with a crying baby in one arm and a phone in the other at board meetings; of my mentor, his office filled with AI textbooks and discreet appointment slips with oncologists. My mother’s $COIN shares dwarf my earnings. Seeking wisdom seems more like vanity than truth—maybe it's all ego.
I want to be someone interesting.
August 29, 2023 (Day 105)
I became the team's first associate—at a firm where an outsourced workforce fills nine out of ten desks, interns assume leadership, and legal battles brew every month.
It's tough. Values crumble—"I can't work with dumb people," they say. Silicon Valley becomes the chorus of Phaethons, each steering their chariots wildly off course. And after watching Nolan’s Oppenheimer, comparing the CEO and my disgraced father, ousted from his hotel at 50, I confront a single question: What does ambition mean, really?
October 22, 2023 (Day 159)
Work remains as is. These past months, however, showed me how, even among giants, the small can ascend (correction: my boss isn't exactly "small"). I once thought I stood at a crossroads, able to choose hard work here over other opportunities. This year, each path I considered was tied to one man: the CEO. But what are accolades even worth before the actual test begins? The draft notice sits on my desk.
And in this haze, it's easy to lose sight of what matters. I've overlooked the need for self-reflection. A sense of isolation and a void that creeps in—the discontinuity of it all.
Everyone aimed to be in private equity or law, and I began to blend in until the memory of someone challenged me, asking, "You too?" My mother often critiques my peers for lacking a philosophy. Yet, I've come to understand that pursuing wealth might be the most straightforward philosophy.
The ambition to change the world often masks a more intricate vanity. One must confront and seek harmony with a deep-seated ego.
November 25, 2023 (Day 193)
I couldn’t turn off the heater.
I opened the door to my hotel room to cool off.
I let the cold breeze blow in.
I preferred harmony over conflict. It was rare to find a teammate, both sharp and thoughtful. As he grew into reporting to the CEOs—a role I gave him—he became indispensable. My first pang of regret hit when he left for military service on November 24. He was my "work bestie," and I claim to have graduated him.
I picked him.
But he smoked. I inherited a disdain for smokers from my father, and seeing someone I cared about choosing that path made me feel, unjustly, a notch above. His attempts to avoid smoking near me seemed more obligatory than considerate.
I crave solitude. A chance to sharpen the lens through which I frame life, myself. When I shared this with my boss, he said, "That's not who you are." As author Eun Hee Kyung describes, I live dual lives, balancing an existence between myself (私) and my persona (公). Now, the scale tipped too far towards the 公, leaving me with fading memories.
And a bit of eczema.
Interlude (12:00 AM the next day)
I ignored your cue to chat after dinner. Regret claws me. Your ear, always listening, holds the story I need. The silence is a chasm between intent and action.
Can I DM you next week?
December 25, 2023 (Day 223)
Brushed off Christmas one day, only to envy the snow-kissed-landscapes and champagne glasses flooding Instagram the next, I couldn't help but feel the irony. Blaming the app was easy. I recalled Jacques Prévert's "Cadeau D'Oiseau," mocking a bird's folly to scorn its sunflower seeds—mirroring my own tendency to blame everything but myself, as certain and naive as a 12-year-old proclaiming life's mysteries solved. Alone with a breakfast salad in a convenience store, comfort settled, then clarity. Then I decided it was Christmas, after all. I owed myself real lunch and dinner.
Two years back, I chased after Michelin-starred meals like a madman, my wallet nearly empty. Leaning on Michelin and Instagram was a compromise between my two selves–one yearning for an accessible understanding of culinary jargon, the other to "look good." Moderate self-indulgence is like sipping wine in broad daylight.
My weeks melted into a routine: Sinchon, work, Yeouido, work, repeat. Saturdays meant a limp mattress. Only Sundays breathed. I tutored in an opulent villa near a French gastropub in Seorae Village. The sourdough sandwich there became my favorite: crisp, tangy, filled with house-cured ham, Dijon, fresh vegetables, and sharp cheese.
To those young cheesemongers, the presence of an even younger man in the too-big gray puffer, reminiscent of a sleep-deprived traveler, always the same sandwich, should have sparked some interest. Their dinners, priced well into the triple digits, shooed away most of the young. So, as the younger man swept the shelves on an early Christmas afternoon, his pockets laden with corporate cash, that interest should have grown.
I head to Jinju tomorrow – my home town. A crypto ad urging me to buy their currencies caught my eye as I left the shop. I remembered how my company was accused of printing crypto just to liquidate it. Perhaps we scraped together some cash from the benevolent 50-year-old crypto investors, enough to afford at least a tomato slice for my sandwich. I vowed to leave.
In Jinju
Pursuing my inner depths seems futile. I once believed the truth existed only within my emotions. But when words beckon, one must heed, standing at a crossroads. Have I ever indeed given something to someone? My mother always said to give. Surrounding glances are tepid. I realized it was because of my own coldness. Crying is an action, a performance. Even if I want to cry, I cannot. What words or triggers do I yearn for? I only feel time flowing relentlessly. If only I could weave all the words and actions to express my heart.
I heard someone was attempting to model every problem in Korean society using data. A black-haired foreigner. All my conversations with you, and then I standardize space and your warmth, connect everything with the theory of relativity, and ensure nothing fades away with blockchain, forever circling a single heart, even after I die. It's just daydreaming, inevitably. Sam Altman said, "Intelligence is an attribute emerging in physics." The tiresome scent of Americans. All I know is the emptiness I feel.
Epilogue (Day 255)
Ambition and stubbornness tread a fine line. One of my final projects was a bootcamp for young talent, with all the proper approvals. The CEO said that in "this industrial era," people should seek knowledge on their own, and assistance for those in need shouldn't be offered.
Circumstances soured, and suddenly, ambition felt more like stubbornness. I couldn't shake the memory of my father, a hotelier whose dreams were dashed by reality. He never was an owner. Honor, politics, wealth, and power—all competing, like characters in a drama; it seemed complex and subtle then, but now, I try to appreciate it.
At an undergrad-organized startup event, I watched the CEO awkwardly trying conversations with founders in their 20s. In the quiet of a corporate restructuring meeting, I endured the tremble in the whisper of a colleague in her 30s, "Don't let the CEO know." She was just one of many targets. What was I working for? What part of myself was I protecting?
"He's not married, right? You have to experience having children to understand. The rebellious teenage phase, the disobedience," my mom told me.
Age conveniently became an excuse, both for me at 22 and my CEO at 50
Concluding
I wanted to live a cinematic life, not as the protagonist, but for the way every detail aligns to convey a profound message, like a grand denouement. Riding a Segway amidst Pangyo's glass skyscrapers isn't a standout moment; it's just how the average 30-year-old Korean tech professional commutes.
So, time and context are of the essence. I finally lived out my Pangyo semester.
I needed a break.
Speaking without thinking is rare for me. Each word is a choice, a reflection of ego, a shield against imagined judgments that I fear and claim to be wounded by, yet ultimately serve to please me. I am made of contradictions. Words are how I tame my thoughts. I reject the places, situations, and people that haunt me to express my thoughts—I insist I am bigger than them.
Pangyo, known as "Pangyo Technovalley," bustles with activity. Capital and cutting-edge technology flow from Seoul into this valley, cradled by mountains on three sides. It sits in Korea's second-largest city, Bundang, hosting tech giants like Naver and Kakao. From a bridge, I would observe the cars streaming into the city each morning, and, every time, I was becoming embodied by a spirit—so elusive, but it would wake me up at 5:30 every day.
July 24, 2023 (Day 69)
At the Chinese bistro, a weekly gathering of athletes, private equity analysts, and aspiring professionals. The invitations were simple until I noticed his gestures—settling bills, the probing questions, the gentle "Let me know what you need." He stood at the center, drawing all the lines to converge upon him. So slowly, everyone leaned in, ambitions now threading through him. Our gatherings, stretching well beyond midnight (unpaid labor much?), were not just about the meal but about his presence.
My boss was a politician.
He was also 26 when he became CEO at Nexon, Korea's largest game publisher. Now he's just above my cubicle, balding. And below me sits a 27-year-old manchild with ambition etched into his frown and a venomous gaze in his eyes as he watches the hierarchy above him. So memories stir—of my previous boss, sharp, with a crying baby in one arm and a phone in the other at board meetings; of my mentor, his office filled with AI textbooks and discreet appointment slips with oncologists. My mother’s $COIN shares dwarf my earnings. Seeking wisdom seems more like vanity than truth—maybe it's all ego.
I want to be someone interesting.
August 29, 2023 (Day 105)
I became the team's first associate—at a firm where an outsourced workforce fills nine out of ten desks, interns assume leadership, and legal battles brew every month.
It's tough. Values crumble—"I can't work with dumb people," they say. Silicon Valley becomes the chorus of Phaethons, each steering their chariots wildly off course. And after watching Nolan’s Oppenheimer, comparing the CEO and my disgraced father, ousted from his hotel at 50, I confront a single question: What does ambition mean, really?
October 22, 2023 (Day 159)
Work remains as is. These past months, however, showed me how, even among giants, the small can ascend (correction: my boss isn't exactly "small"). I once thought I stood at a crossroads, able to choose hard work here over other opportunities. This year, each path I considered was tied to one man: the CEO. But what are accolades even worth before the actual test begins? The draft notice sits on my desk.
And in this haze, it's easy to lose sight of what matters. I've overlooked the need for self-reflection. A sense of isolation and a void that creeps in—the discontinuity of it all.
Everyone aimed to be in private equity or law, and I began to blend in until the memory of someone challenged me, asking, "You too?" My mother often critiques my peers for lacking a philosophy. Yet, I've come to understand that pursuing wealth might be the most straightforward philosophy.
The ambition to change the world often masks a more intricate vanity. One must confront and seek harmony with a deep-seated ego.
November 25, 2023 (Day 193)
I couldn’t turn off the heater.
I opened the door to my hotel room to cool off.
I let the cold breeze blow in.
I preferred harmony over conflict. It was rare to find a teammate, both sharp and thoughtful. As he grew into reporting to the CEOs—a role I gave him—he became indispensable. My first pang of regret hit when he left for military service on November 24. He was my "work bestie," and I claim to have graduated him.
I picked him.
But he smoked. I inherited a disdain for smokers from my father, and seeing someone I cared about choosing that path made me feel, unjustly, a notch above. His attempts to avoid smoking near me seemed more obligatory than considerate.
I crave solitude. A chance to sharpen the lens through which I frame life, myself. When I shared this with my boss, he said, "That's not who you are." As author Eun Hee Kyung describes, I live dual lives, balancing an existence between myself (私) and my persona (公). Now, the scale tipped too far towards the 公, leaving me with fading memories.
And a bit of eczema.
Interlude (12:00 AM the next day)
I ignored your cue to chat after dinner. Regret claws me. Your ear, always listening, holds the story I need. The silence is a chasm between intent and action.
Can I DM you next week?
December 25, 2023 (Day 223)
Brushed off Christmas one day, only to envy the snow-kissed-landscapes and champagne glasses flooding Instagram the next, I couldn't help but feel the irony. Blaming the app was easy. I recalled Jacques Prévert's "Cadeau D'Oiseau," mocking a bird's folly to scorn its sunflower seeds—mirroring my own tendency to blame everything but myself, as certain and naive as a 12-year-old proclaiming life's mysteries solved. Alone with a breakfast salad in a convenience store, comfort settled, then clarity. Then I decided it was Christmas, after all. I owed myself real lunch and dinner.
Two years back, I chased after Michelin-starred meals like a madman, my wallet nearly empty. Leaning on Michelin and Instagram was a compromise between my two selves–one yearning for an accessible understanding of culinary jargon, the other to "look good." Moderate self-indulgence is like sipping wine in broad daylight.
My weeks melted into a routine: Sinchon, work, Yeouido, work, repeat. Saturdays meant a limp mattress. Only Sundays breathed. I tutored in an opulent villa near a French gastropub in Seorae Village. The sourdough sandwich there became my favorite: crisp, tangy, filled with house-cured ham, Dijon, fresh vegetables, and sharp cheese.
To those young cheesemongers, the presence of an even younger man in the too-big gray puffer, reminiscent of a sleep-deprived traveler, always the same sandwich, should have sparked some interest. Their dinners, priced well into the triple digits, shooed away most of the young. So, as the younger man swept the shelves on an early Christmas afternoon, his pockets laden with corporate cash, that interest should have grown.
I head to Jinju tomorrow – my home town. A crypto ad urging me to buy their currencies caught my eye as I left the shop. I remembered how my company was accused of printing crypto just to liquidate it. Perhaps we scraped together some cash from the benevolent 50-year-old crypto investors, enough to afford at least a tomato slice for my sandwich. I vowed to leave.
In Jinju
Pursuing my inner depths seems futile. I once believed the truth existed only within my emotions. But when words beckon, one must heed, standing at a crossroads. Have I ever indeed given something to someone? My mother always said to give. Surrounding glances are tepid. I realized it was because of my own coldness. Crying is an action, a performance. Even if I want to cry, I cannot. What words or triggers do I yearn for? I only feel time flowing relentlessly. If only I could weave all the words and actions to express my heart.
I heard someone was attempting to model every problem in Korean society using data. A black-haired foreigner. All my conversations with you, and then I standardize space and your warmth, connect everything with the theory of relativity, and ensure nothing fades away with blockchain, forever circling a single heart, even after I die. It's just daydreaming, inevitably. Sam Altman said, "Intelligence is an attribute emerging in physics." The tiresome scent of Americans. All I know is the emptiness I feel.
Epilogue (Day 255)
Ambition and stubbornness tread a fine line. One of my final projects was a bootcamp for young talent, with all the proper approvals. The CEO said that in "this industrial era," people should seek knowledge on their own, and assistance for those in need shouldn't be offered.
Circumstances soured, and suddenly, ambition felt more like stubbornness. I couldn't shake the memory of my father, a hotelier whose dreams were dashed by reality. He never was an owner. Honor, politics, wealth, and power—all competing, like characters in a drama; it seemed complex and subtle then, but now, I try to appreciate it.
At an undergrad-organized startup event, I watched the CEO awkwardly trying conversations with founders in their 20s. In the quiet of a corporate restructuring meeting, I endured the tremble in the whisper of a colleague in her 30s, "Don't let the CEO know." She was just one of many targets. What was I working for? What part of myself was I protecting?
"He's not married, right? You have to experience having children to understand. The rebellious teenage phase, the disobedience," my mom told me.
Age conveniently became an excuse, both for me at 22 and my CEO at 50
Concluding
I wanted to live a cinematic life, not as the protagonist, but for the way every detail aligns to convey a profound message, like a grand denouement. Riding a Segway amidst Pangyo's glass skyscrapers isn't a standout moment; it's just how the average 30-year-old Korean tech professional commutes.
So, time and context are of the essence. I finally lived out my Pangyo semester.
Written by Sun, edited by ChatGPT