A "black hole" has emerged in South Korea. It is sucking in everyone's conversations, attention, and even their wallets.
Local elections to choose our neighborhood representatives are coming up next week, but voters' interest does not seem to be what it used to be. Only the campaign trucks' adapted songs and slogans are loud. Still, I have decided whom to vote for as district councilor among the candidates running for offices including Seoul mayor. The sincerity in his early-morning greetings at the apartment's main gate was unmistakable.
The World Cup, which has always painted Korea in "Red Devils" colors, is also just over 10 days away, but the national soccer team is unlikely to displace people's current conversation topics. Back in June 2002, the entire nation used to "debate" coach Hiddink's strategies and Ahn Jung-hwan's finishing skills.
In 2026, the blockbuster-level interest sweeping South Korea seems to be entirely about the KOSPI hovering around 8,000 and marching toward 10,000, and "Sam-jeon-nix" (Samsung Electronics and SK hynix). What dominates the conversation at restaurant tables near the office boils down to how much someone made on "Sam-jeon-nix," or whether they hold stocks even tangentially related to semiconductors, artificial intelligence (AI), or robotics.
Because I happen to be an economics journalist, I get questions often—mostly belated, impatient ones tinged with regret, such as, "Is it too late to get in now?" Sometimes the questions are relatively in-depth: "What impact will the 'Samsung-nix 2x exchange-traded fund (ETF)' have on the broader market or on the rise and fall of semiconductor stock prices?" or "What is the likelihood of a base rate hike, and what direction should investments take accordingly?"
At this point, I—who own absolutely no shares of "Sam-jeon-nix" or peripheral stocks—should be suffering from "FOMO" (fear of missing out). An acquaintance I met recently advised me earnestly, "To overcome FOMO, just buy even one share of those stocks." He said he had managed to overcome his "FOMO" somewhat through that very method.
So I asked myself: "Am I anxious and afraid?" The bigger problem is that I am not. Choi Ga-on, who overcame the fear of injury to win a gold medal at this year's Winter Olympics, said, "I think my will to win beats my fear." Conversely, I find myself thinking that "my lack of competitive drive is beating my fear." After several rounds of experience, it is all too obvious at what level of seed money and rate of return my investment story would end.
Yet within this syndrome-like investment fever, thanks to a story that has captured the eyes and ears of some, I have come face to face with a true fear. "Everyone is fighting against their own worthlessness." What a chilling drama title.
It is hard to imagine the kind of fear that comes when one's worthlessness—being confirmed as a useless human being—is laid bare. Watching Dong-man, who runs forward saying, "When I can't prove myself by being great, I prove myself by falling apart," I feel something beyond desperation—an unbearable pain. Eun-ah's emotional state, which appears as "unknown" even on the emotion watch, is what he himself calls "self-destruction."
The reason everyone fights so fiercely in daily life is to prove their own value. We know all too well that without confirming that sense of existence, we are constantly seized by fear and anxiety and cannot live properly. So we must live a seemingly ordinary yet war-like life—occasionally with style, but mostly just slogging through.
To overcome the true fear that will keep returning, we must live carrying within us the way to live valuably—like the dreams we had as children. The author, through the mouth of Jin-man, said, "Every story / is a cry that I exist." If we can create a story that suits us, perhaps the value we have left can be sustained for a long time.
Let us try to break free from fear by sharing the story of Japanese author Chisako Wakatake. Now 72, she began writing novels at 55 after losing her husband. With "I'll Go Alone, the Way I Am," her first novel written over eight years, she received the Akutagawa Prize, Japan's most prestigious literary award, in 2018 at the age of 63.
In her recently published first essay collection, "Festivals Are Held Even in the Afternoon of Life," the author writes: "I want to depict myself constantly asking questions, searching for answers, and gradually moving toward higher places. I daydream about myself growing old while writing."
