There’s something oddly beautiful about the places nobody photographs. Not the palace gates or tower views— But the spaces between buildings. The cracks. The concrete hallways where you’re not sure if you’re allowed to walk through but you do anyway.
One afternoon, I stood behind an apartment complex in Eungam. There was a plastic chair facing a wall, and beside it, a small yellow cup with no handle. That was it. No explanation. But something about it made me stop. Like someone had been sitting there for a long time. Or maybe just once, but they left something behind that felt heavier than it looked.
That’s the Seoul I want to write about. Not the one in tourist guides or subway ads. But the city that breathes in silence when no one’s watching. The elevator mirrors. The buzzer sounds. The way the light hits the metal door of a closed bakery at 6:30am.
I don’t know if any of this matters to anyone else. Maybe that chair and that cup were just trash. Maybe I’m reading into things because I want to find meaning in a city that moves too fast to let you rest. But maybe, just maybe, these are the real moments. The ones that go undocumented unless we make time for them.
This isn’t journalism. It’s not curated content. It’s just a thought that wouldn’t leave me alone until I wrote it down. And I think that’s what Post Seoul is supposed to be. Not a brand. Not a publication. A place for fragments. For things half-felt. Half-remembered. Real because they’re unresolved.
We don’t always need to understand what we’re seeing. Sometimes we just need to be the ones who saw it.
