Window

By Namoo Chae Lee

“ 창내고저 창내고저 이내 가슴에 창내고저”
It’s an ancient Korean poem I used to quote, half-jokingly, whenever I was in trouble. It literally translates to: “I long for a window — a window in my heart, I long for a window.” For some reason, that simple line has always resonated with me.

What would I do with a window in my heart? Maybe I just want to let it breathe — to open it up, let in some sun, some fresh air. When I’m overwhelmed, all I crave is a moment to breathe. And that window, whether real or imagined, becomes a way to let my heart exhale — just a little.

I remember the time I lived in a room without a window. It was during my university years, when the rooms with windows were much more expensive. Only then did I realise: a room without a window is just a larger coffin. You keep breathing in without properly exhaling. I was turning into a mole, burrowing deeper, disconnected from the world outside. You really do need a window to live — not just to survive.

How people breathe — or ventilate — may differ depending on culture. In Korea, opening the window wide in the early morning was a daily ritual. But in the UK, I was surprised that windows don’t open the same way — they tilt slightly, or slide vertically. A small but telling cultural difference, and perhaps, a reflection of how people function.

I suppose I’m still getting used to this new way of opening windows — in my room, and in my heart.

I want to fling them wide open, all the time.
But now, I find myself growing cautious — worried about getting soaked, about letting too much in.
So here I am, trying to find the right balance between opening and closing the window — the window of my heart.

“창내고저 창내고저 이내 가슴에 창내고저”