#002. One Shitty Day After Another
I was a failed aspiring actor.
Like most people, there was a tear-jerking backstory to it all, but it didn't mean much. In the end, the only thing that mattered was that I'd failed.
I don't think I put in any less effort than anyone else.
I submitted applications to every audition out there, and whenever a new script popped up anywhere, I'd pull all-nighters studying it. My collection of monologue books was worn to shreds—I had to buy new ones multiple times. I lived and breathed acting every single day.
For several years like that.
The results weren't completely nonexistent.
"Your visuals are solid too. Not bad at all."
Veteran directors and seasoned writers rarely gave my acting harsh criticism.
In fact, these days, I heard praise far more often—something rare, like how solid my fundamentals were.
But I'd never once landed a proper role beyond extras.
"It's not bad... but there's just no real punch to it."
"Feels like you're playing separately from the screen."
"...Let's just proceed without that guy for now."
"You have no talent that shines on screen."
Principal Hong Ji-ho had clicked his tongue at me early on, saying that.
"Cameras are finicky things. Some people come out better than real life, others way more awkward."
"Yeah, it's unfair, but what can you do? That's talent for you."
"...You might wanna look for another path."
I could instinctively tell he was right.
Even so, I couldn't accept it.
Whether it was because I hated wasting all that time, some stubbornness unique to a rags-to-riches type, or some other reason, I don't know.
I just thought something like this:
'I'll just live like this and die someday.'
Looking back, it's laughable, but back then, I really believed it. Quitting the stage and the camera felt worse than death.
One time, I even got blackout drunk and screamed at the sky.
"Kill me! If you're gonna make me live like this, just kill me!"
And, well, in a truly fucked-up twist—
The heavens, or whatever, actually answered that prayer.
For real.
#002. One Shitty Day After Another
I still remember vividly the content of the first dream I had a few months ago.
I was a farmer named Hans.
To be more precise, a typical medieval serf.
[What'll we do today, m'lord?]
Depending on how I rubbed my hands at the lord's manor, I'd get different orders.
Work the fields, go gather firewood since we're short, tend the grapes. Help with brewing wine—
Sometimes I'd tend to the small plot and pasture allotted to me. But most of the harvest went to the lord anyway.
[Alright, let's work hard again today!]
Even so, Hans never complained and just kept at it. He was the picture of an ideal, simple serf.
But one day, Hans got his head chopped off by a lord from another territory who was pissed over nothing.
In terms of dramatic structure, it was a total flop of an ending.
But.
"...What kind of bullshit dream is this?"
When I woke from that crap dream, my neck was covered in cold sweat.
The sensation of the blade slicing into my neck—and my head coming off—was that vividly real.
"Hoo..."
It took me a good ten minutes of steadying my breathing before I could calm down.
At the time, I figured it was just an off day, maybe poor condition.
I was wrong.
For reasons I couldn't fathom—
From that night on, I started dying in my dreams every single night.
Some nights, I was a knight.
Others, a scholar.
Sometimes even nobility or royalty.
Of course, I was a farmer again once or twice.
Race, background, status—there was no common thread binding these characters.
Except two things.
They always died at the end.
And those deaths felt impossibly real—not like dreams at all.
Of course, as the one experiencing it, neither was remotely welcome.
'What the actual fuck...!'
I'd dismissed it as a common nightmare at first, but after days of vivid beheadings, stranglings, flayings, and even starvations, even I started to lose my shit.
Of course, I tried every solution under the sun.
Changed my diet, exercised, got wasted before bed, even tried napping in a noisy plaza during the day.
I even moved apartments and saw a psychiatrist.
Nothing worked.
By the end of the month, I was a walking zombie.
"Sorry, Principal Hong Ji-ho, but I'm not feeling well today. Mind if I take a break?"
"Yes, this is Kang Min."
"...No, it's not impersonation."
"......Where the hell would I even get drugs like that?"
For the first time since starting acting, I took a complete break—did absolutely nothing. That's how wrecked my body and mind were.
And then, something amazing happened.
I didn't dream at all that night.
'...?'
It was a miracle.
Waking up without agony felt so refreshing, so light—like the world was overflowing with sweetness, a revelation.
Overjoyed by this blessed miracle, I headed to the academy.
And that night, I died in my dream again.
'.......'
That's when I finally pieced it together.
'...No way.'
Yeah.
For whatever unknowable reason, the nightmare's logic was ridiculously simple.
Go to the academy, practice lines, read a script—anything acting-related, and the nightmare hit without fail.
Conversely, avoid it, and no nightmare.
Whether I'd lost my mind or some mad scientist was zapping my brain in a jar like that, who knows. But that's how it was.
The conclusion was straightforward.
Something—or someone—was stopping me from acting!
'What a joke!'
I was furious.
And instead, burning with even more resolve.
'As if some cheap trick like this could kill my hunger for acting!'
Acting was like an instinct etched into my soul. Like how I can't live without eating or sleeping—I couldn't live without acting.
That's just the kind of person I was born to be.
'Whoever you are, how dare you test me...!'
I ground my teeth.
It wasn't even real death. Just pain as real as dying. That alone couldn't stop my craving!
Didn't Ernest Hemingway say in The Old Man and the Sea that man can be destroyed but not defeated? I was living that exact truth.
And after months of that unyielding resolve—
Having endured it all, I stood tall before Principal Hong Ji-ho and declared:
"I want to quit acting."
"...What?"
I averted my eyes from his blinking stare.
...Well, y'know.
Humans aren't made to lose, but we're sure as hell not made to die every damn night either.
That stubborn bastard Hemingway would've said the exact same thing after three hundred deaths.
No doubt about it.
#
"...Well, whatever. You thought it through, at least."
After grilling me thoroughly and realizing I meant it, Principal Hong sighed and patted my shoulder.
Like he admired me for finally coming to my senses—no hint of trying to talk me out of it.
Isn't that a bit much?
"Your career's the much part, kid."
"Facts hurt that bad?"
"They do. Never thought even one of the kids I handpicked would fail to snag a single bit part."
"Who could've guessed."
If I'd known, I'd have quit ages ago. No dreams then either.
As I sighed, Principal Hong chuckled like he finally had some breathing room. Then, for some reason, he rummaged in his drawer.
What he pulled out was a thick envelope.
"Take it."
"What's this?"
"All the academy fees you've paid so far."
"......."
For real?
As I blinked dumbly, he gave a wry smile.
"Like I taught you anything worth charging for."
"Even so, what academy refunds tuition?"
"None. Unless it's this great actor-turned-principal Hong Ji-ho using his big heart."
Chin up arrogantly at first, he then softened and patted my shoulder.
"You did well. You'll succeed at whatever you do. Sorry I couldn't help more."
"......."
For a moment,
Something welled up.
The decision I'd made in panic, pushed by nightmares, finally felt real.
Three years before adulthood, four after—seven years poured into this industry. All for nothing.
I'd never lost to anyone in effort.
Just... no talent.
Who else was there to blame?
"......."
Hong Ji-ho waited quietly for me to sort my emotions.
Then, pretending not to notice, he slid over another small envelope.
"Not free. Take this, but you gotta do something in return."
"Do what?"
"One last audition. Go for it."
"...?"
The emotion faded in an instant.
For some reason,
I felt a deep sense of dread.
I opened the small envelope. Inside was a folded A4 sheet like a letter and a tiny note.
And on that note—
Hong Ji-ho grinned.
"You know that MBS 10 p.m. weekend drama that ended early? They're rushing a replacement project. We got some audition slots at the academy, so one last time for you—"
"No thanks."
I snapped the envelope shut and shoved it back.
Brushed my hands like they'd touched filth.
Chills ran down my spine.
'I barely quit after sweet-talking a starving dragon into letting me go, and now back to that shit?!'
Absurd. Who knows what dream I'd get next.
Maybe tossed into a cosmic space squid's mouth!
But Principal Hong misinterpreted my freakout and spoke softly.
"It's the last one. Go clear your regrets."
"No, really, I'm good."
"You say that, but."
"Plenty of other kids need the chance more. Give it to them."
"Nah, it's a rush job, no extras left. Just adding your name to fill one slot—"
"Then send one short."
"Quit refusing already?"
"I said I'm good!"
The back-and-forth escalated.
And turned into shouting.
"I don't even wanna look at those anymore! Stacks of white-and-black scribbles for pretending to be someone else!"
"What the hell happened to make you not even call 'em scripts?!"
One Shitty Day After Another (2)