How to Live: A Guide by BTS (Contest Finalist)
written by S. Cairo
There is a distinct line between surviving and living, a thin border separating the two — view it from too far away, and you’ll miss it. It’s why the two words are often used synonymously, but it becomes very apparent when you are alive, yet only surviving. I’ll admit, I hadn’t dwelled much on the divide that set these two states apart until just two months after I turned nineteen, when I was trapped in a region labelled “surviving.” I don’t know how I ended up there, perhaps it was such a gradual process that I didn’t even realize it until I was staring at the other side, unable to cross. What used to be a minuscule line was now blatantly staring me in the face, overbearing and oceans long. I had to learn a way to get to the other side, to the sanctuary labelled “living,” but it became obvious that I couldn’t cross this line. At least, not alone.
The state of survival is bleak. The sun rarely makes an appearance, and when it does, it’s gone just as quickly as it appeared. I became passive to the movement around me. Days passed by in a blur. My life was an endless cycle of waking, class, work, sleeping. When I wasn’t asleep, I spent the day watching clocks, counting down the time until I could fall into the blissful release of sleep that provided me with an escape from the reality that had roughly embraced me in its hold, despite my attempts to break free.
Countless self-help guides aid you in coping with the burden of the past. Maybe even the burden of the future, of the expectations waiting for you to meet them. But no one talks about the burden of the present. When the world is weighing down on your shoulders and you’re sinking into quicksand, being pulled deeper and deeper down. No matter how much I squirmed and struggled, I was stuck in the same position, descending dangerously lower. That is until a helping hand firmly grabbed hold of me and pulled me out.
I didn’t expect seven twenty-something boys singing in a language I don’t understand to teach me how to live, but the lessons they gave me are the reason I have safely crossed over to the state of living today. It started with a song called “Make It Right.” Stumbling upon that song was complete happenstance, perhaps the result of serendipity, if you will. I didn’t understand all the lyrics when I first listened, but genuineness and sincerity oozed out of the song, something you could undeniably feel even if you didn’t know what was being said. The song was a blanket of comfort that encased me in its warmth. I grabbed the words I could understand with a desperate, tight grip, holding them to my chest with the conviction that this was an answer to my unheard plea for help.
“I could make it better,
I could hold you tighter
Oh, you’re the light
Oh, I can make it right.” (Doolset Bangtan)
From that point on, there were more phrases from BTS that I took to heart, but those lyrics were the beginning of my journey, aiding me in crossing to the side of living.
It started simply. I woke up one day, but instead of mentally calculating the hours until I could return to my bed, foreign feelings of excitement bubbled through me. I was taking the train to campus just like every other day, but today was different. Today I could spend an hour doing nothing but listening to BTS’s music during my commute. Such a small difference in my daily routine, but such a big impact.
There was a certain romance to my train ride, in the way “ON” blasted through my ears as I stared out the window that showed scenery blurring past me. My commute — something that I used to think was a tedious experience meant for me to take naps — became a landscape of daydreams, a type of exhilarating freedom that only a quest focusing on the journey instead of the destination could provide.
The romanticism of my life persisted the more I listened to BTS. It was in watching the brotherly camaraderie of the Korean septet, in the way they dedicated songs to each other — going as far as to declare each other as soulmates — that I felt immense gratitude for my friendships. I was overcome with the urge to express my love for my friends, to show them how thankful I am for their existence in my life. I sent dozens of texts during no special occasion, and my friends, flustered and overwhelmed, thanked me for the kind words, ensuring me that the feelings were reciprocated. They told me I seemed happier; I told them I felt happier.
But happiness doesn’t last forever. I have a bad habit of beating myself up over mistakes I’ve made, ones that I can’t right, meaning that I’m then forced to deal with the consequences of my naivety. It’s something that has persisted for years since I was in high school. It didn’t improve in university. But now, when I’m in the throes of rumination, asserting myself as the reason for all my shortcomings, I pause. I remind myself of Love Yourself: Answer, of the wish the members of BTS have for their fanbase, and I firmly pull myself together with only one repetitive thought echoing in my mind: be kinder to yourself.
It’s not a solution, but it’s a start.
I am not a person of grand happenings. I find pleasure in the smaller, quieter moments of life: cloudy days full of rain accompanied by a good book, watching a cliché movie in my friend’s basement as we laugh at the predictability of the plot, the brilliant combination of a good meal with the new episode of a show I waited a week for. But it’s easy, especially when you approach your twenties, to feel that something is missing from your life: a romantic partner, an epic party, that competitive internship that will make sure you get the job you want. As if, without these things, happiness is unattainable. But there is something comforting in the words of BTS, words that quiet introverts like myself find solace in. It’s why I felt so validated when Namjoon said, “I think there’s no need to live your life based on the standard of others. Everyone says, ‘dream big,’ but I don’t think that you have to live so fiercely all the time” (Kim, 2016).
It’s through these words, through their actions and message, that BTS taught me what it is to find satisfaction and comfort in my own life. I remember the moment when I realized I had safely crossed the line between surviving and living. I was watching a RUN BTS episode and I did something in its presence that had become rare: laugh. That big, goofy, eyes crinkling, cheeks hurting, sore belly type of laughter that spills from your lips and travels through your entire being until you’re shaking from mirth. It was with the help of BTS that I was able to move from the state of surviving into the state of living because they taught me how to romanticize my small experiences, to appreciate everything I’ve got in my life, including myself. All of a sudden, I would wake up excited for the day, looking forward to what was to come, the feeling so exotic, yet so welcome. If a Greek god is overlooking BTS, I’m nearly certain it’s Hestia, goddess of the hearth — where hope survives best — guiding BTS as they outstretch their hands to others who have drifted too far into the state of surviving, picking them up and teaching them how to live again. Just like what they did for me.
This essay was chosen as one of the finalists of the first BTS Essay contest hosted by The BTS Effect. Find out more here.
References
Doolset Bangtan. (2019). Make It Right. Doolset Lyrics. https://doolsetbangtan.wordpress.com/2019/04/13/make-it-right/
Kim, N. (2016). BTS Live in Tokyo. V Live. https://www.vlive.tv/post/1-18241767
The BTS Effect Medium page publishes submissions from ARMY about how BTS has affected, inspired, or otherwise impacted their lives. If you’d like to submit a story, please click here for more information. This publication is part of TheBTSEffect.com. You can sign up for the newsletter here.
