Korean Expat Community for National Disasters

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Where do you go when the city gets too loud?

Or do you ever feel like running—not to escape life, but to feel it again?

I love the rush of crowded streets, the laughter echoing through amusement parks, the rhythmic chaos of crashing waves, and the wild stillness of the hills. But sometimes… it’s too much.
The noise.
The pace.
Even my own thoughts start shouting over each other.

So I disappear.
Not far. Just enough.

One day, I climbed Hwangnyeongsan in Busan—not the usual trail lined with weekend hikers, but higher, deeper, quieter. Somewhere the map forgets.
There, I found a stone no one had claimed. It felt like it had been waiting for me.
To my left, the city flickered—tiny lights dancing like fireflies in a jar.
To my right, the sea shimmered. Gwangalli whispered secrets only the wind could carry.

Isn’t it strange—how silence can sometimes speak louder than the world ever does?

The trees rustled like they were breathing.
Cicadas sang like it was their last summer.
The wind wrapped around me—not as a storm, but as a reminder.
That I was still here.

For a moment, I wasn’t a student. Or a friend. Or a worker.
I was just... me.
A soul on a rock, watching the night unfold as the bridge lit up like the first line of a story yet to be written.

So tell me—
Where do you go when you need to remember who you are?