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I have fallen in love with Seoul in the time it takes
for the earth to rotate on its axis, for the night to
yawn and tuck itself into the folds of Europe as the
sun stretches, reaching sleep-stiff fingers through
Asia’s hairline. I have fallen in love with Seoul for

all its feats and flaws, have wandered through
neon skies and wondered at the underground
citadels stretching subterranean under my feet.
This is a fashion mecca, and I see nothing but crafted
perfected faces, sculpted jaws and expertly shaped
eyes. This is the land of plastic surgery and there is

something tragic in this. A city of such ancient beauty,
palaces defiant in the midst of skyscrapers and yet
another Starbucks, contorting itself into photoshop
handsome poses, cutting off fat with surgical precision,
sharpening the edges of its curved roof cheekbones,
becoming angular, modern and sleek. There is something

tragic in this, most poignant in the mornings after the
nights before, when Seoul is stripped bare of neon and
artificial starlight, is worn down and bare-boned and
strikingly human. I watch the subway passengers, local
commuters, businessmen, all raise a plucked eyebrow
at me with practised nonchalance and I wonder what
they look like in the dawn hours, if the mask ever slips,

if Seoul and his people ever squint into the rising sun with
the memories of wild smiles marked in the creases around
their mouths, if they bend rigid skyscraper spines and
remember what it feels like to curl, soft and tapered, in
pagoda-style roof tiles, in sleeping dragons’ nests.