Behind the Big Bang

Chapter 1

G-Dragon

On a rainy Saturday afternoon, as I trudged through the grimy alley that led from the small apartment where I lived, towards YG Entertainment headquarters, pulling my hood up, I had no idea that it was the day my life would take a turn.

My name is Kwon Jiyong. At first glance, I seem like a skinny, ordinary, South Korean boy, fifteen years old, going through the rise and fall of puberty, attending school, doing homework, staying up late with friends, etc. How I wish I was like that.

Because I am, as YG told my parents when I was recruited, a "musical genius." I can't say he was wrong. All day, bits and pieces of songs fly through my head, whizzing around my brain like bees, and if I try hard enough, soon I can hear the beginnings of a song. When this happens, I grab a notepad and write it down. I have notebooks full of unfinished music, and I keep filling more.

Sometimes, in the middle of the night, a beat would start in my head, waking me up, so I would get out of bed, and write it down, working until the sun breaks through the dark gray clouds at the edge of the horizon.

I feel like my entire life is a piece of music, and although being a musical genius must sound quite impressive, I feel like my song has reached a chorus yet. I try my best at whatever YG tells me to do, write my music everyday, go to school, and try to pay attention, but I'm always feeling like I'm stuck in an erratic drumbeat that goes on and on, with no distinct rhythm.

Earlier this week, I had received the news that I had been casted to perform in another music video, side by side with another boy, who was about the same age as me, Dong Youngbae. I told them, yes, I can do this, and I can work well with him, and yes, I will be sure to be on time.

It wasn't that I didn't like people, or that I was antisocial, nor was I introverted. It was just frustrating, really, that when I talked, no one understood, and no one was able to pretend to be interested long enough for a legitimate conversation to occur. They would nod politely, smile, and turn away as soon as it was socially acceptable. In the entirety of my life, I'd never met anyone who actually knew exactly how I felt, or showed genuine interest in what I said, not even my sister Dami, nor my parents. The only words they heard were "musical genius;" they didn't know what came with being one.

As I turned the corner to the main street, I heard splashes behind me. Looking back, I saw Haru, a small boy I had befriended, who lived in the floor below me. He was about five years old, had a round face, eyes that always sparkled, and he was running as fast as he could towards me, yelling, "Jiyong!"

I smiled, "Hey, Haru. What's up?" Because Haru was so young, he didn't care much about what I said, always asking me to "tell me more!" Although he was a good friend, I was the one talking most of the time, and he listened, his eyes usually wide with excitement. I doubted he knew what I was saying half the time, but he provided excellent company when I needed someone to talk to.

"Where are you going, Jiyong?" Haru asked, grabbing my hand with his sticky fingers. "Can I come?"

"Sorry, Haru, but I'm filming for a music video today, and I don't think they'd let you in." I replied, trying to extricate my hand from his surprisingly tight grip. "Don't worry, I'll play with you later."

Haru's face fell, but then he grinned at me. "Wow, that's so cool! Have fun!" With that, he turned and ran back towards the apartments.

I waved, and headed on, admiring Haru's optimism. As I walked, I kept hearing Haru's voice, saying "Have fun!" With a jolt, I realized I had to actually think hard to the last time I actually had fun, when I found real happiness.

As I walked along, my brain came up with the image of a young boy with strikingly intense brown eyes, messy hair, and a playful spark. The scene shifted to two little boys, one in first grade, and one in second, taking a picture in front of my house, the younger one's arm slung over the other's shoulders, grinning happily at the camera, while the older one tried to wriggle free from his grasp. The younger boy was me. The older was my best friend when I still lived in a house. His name was Choi Seunghyun. Smiling at the memory, I continued walking, all the while wondering how Seunghyun, or Seung, as I called him, was. Thinking about Seung, the five miles to YG seemed much shorter.