The Twelve Apostles

This wine is the "Mona Lisa." I was driving along the road from Florence to Pisa. It was about halfway when an old Romanesque church caught my eye, and I stopped the car. I got out and walked through rows of old houses with centuries-old olive trees in their gardens, past vineyards heavy with fruit, towards the center of the village. As I slowly climbed the Roman-era cobblestone road, I arrived at an old brick house. I became curious about who lived there because it exuded a mysterious aura. Although it was just an old house like any other in this small town, it undeniably housed an immortal soul that created perfect beauty and orderly harmony. I stepped into the house. At that moment, my soul traveled back through time and encountered an artist captivated by beauty and mystery. He invited me into his atelier. The afternoon sunlight streaming through the high windows illuminated two small paintings covered with black cloth. The artist stood me before the paintings and removed the cloth to reveal the mystery. Both paintings depicted a woman with an elusive, ambiguous smile, so similar they were indistinguishable. The artist asked me, "Which one do you love?" I inquired, "When were these two paintings created?" The artist replied, "The painting on the right was done in summer," "The one on the left in spring." Hearing this, I posed another question, "Who are these paintings of?" The artist answered again, "The left painting is of a woman who has just conceived. The right painting is..." He trailed off, smiling mischievously like a naughty child, and said to me, "I cannot tell you the model for the right painting." I compared the two paintings again. The right painting was more vigorous, brimming with youthful freshness as if the paint had not yet dried. In contrast, the left painting exuded completed softness and tenderness, wrapping my heart in a gentle embrace like cotton wool. I understood everything and answered, "The one I love is the painting on the left."

The 'Third Apostle' was tucked away in the drawers of my memory. This wine awakened a small, yet irreplaceable emotion that I had almost forgotten. What day was that scene from? It was the season moving towards summer—playing to our hearts' content with good friends in the fields until the sun began to set. While playing hide and seek, I realized I was left alone in a vacant lot, my friends' presence vanished without a trace. In the lot, white dandelions, now rarely seen, grew in clusters among the weeds. The spreading sunset dyed them a deep red. From somewhere, the delicious aroma of dinner being prepared wafted through the air. Was something being grilled? Mixing with the scent of the grass, it became an exquisite aroma of herbs and spices that tickled my nose. Alone in the twilight of the vacant lot, the wind carrying the scent of family gatherings made me irresistibly homesick. Let's go home, let's go home, I thought, and began to walk. But the houses in the twilight all looked the same. No matter how far I walked, home seemed to retreat further away. As I lost my way, hungry and on the verge of tears, a warm hand rested on my shoulder. "Boy...." The owner of the warm, large hand smiled at me and gave me sweets to ease my anxiety. I put that small piece in my mouth. A comforting sweetness. An unimaginable richness. That warmth was etched forever in my young heart as a fleeting memory. When I came to, I was standing in front of my house. Through the slightly open window, I could hear the laughter of family gatherings. Yearning for the warmth of my beloved and trusted family, I opened the heavy wooden door.

I find myself under the clear May sky. There, under the gentle shade of a great tree, I gaze upon a brilliantly shining garden, and suddenly, I open an old book I had brought with me.

"When I saw you beneath the apple tree, with your hair just beginning to grow, adorned with a flower comb, I thought of you as a gentle being. You extended your white hand and gave me an apple, a pale red autumn fruit, and that was the beginning of my first love. When my sighs, devoid of heart, touched your hair, I drank the cup of joyful love, poured by your affection. Beneath the apple orchard, the narrow path that naturally formed—whose first steps marked it, I wonder."

I slowly stand up and, humming the memorized poem, wander through the blooming garden. Enveloped by the scent of budding green leaves and the aroma of rain-soaked earth rising from the ground, I find myself, without realizing it, standing in the very heart of the garden. A harmony of vivid flowers—crimson, cherry blossom pink, red-purple, and pure white. I gently pick a single red-purple flower and, as I once did with a girl, sip its nectar. Its pure, faint, and reticent sweetness quietly connects to the memory of the girl's smile and sweet kiss... That wine resembles my first love.

I am now standing at a solitary peak. In this pure and clear atmosphere, there is nothing above me but the sky. The peaks below lie prostrate, and the silver-white clinging to the rock face shines smoothly as if draped in a silk dress. Suddenly, tears welled up. To seek their meaning, I reflected on the journey that brought me to this summit. Always fraught with difficulty yet driven by an insatiable hope, and above all, a determination as if possessed by a demon, I aimed for the peak. With the first step, I looked up at the high peaks beginning to be tinged by the morning sun. The silence seemed to test those who dared to challenge it, and the giant merely gazed down. Like "Don Quixote," I charged forward. Suppressing my eager heart, I firmly set my sights on the summit. And what happened? The mountain's expression changed moment by moment, sometimes smiling, sometimes serene, and at times baring its fangs with a wild spirit. But I did not give up. Driven by ideals, hope, and the demands of my soul, I clung to the rocks, stepped on the sliding snow, and relentlessly aimed for the heights. Just a little further, just a little further, my soul was hungry and thirsty, and the mountain, towering and beautiful, silently mocked me, seeing nothing but the towering peak. The summit, veiled like silk, occasionally appeared in view, only to vanish again, retreating like a mirage when I thought I was close. Oh, mountain. Are you a demon? Or a god!? How much time has passed..... before I knew it, my hand had grasped the summit. I had arrived. What bliss, what transparency. Richness, coldness, the complexity of this world, perhaps even elegance. The joy of surveying everything from this peak. I inhaled it all deeply and then left the mountain behind. When I reached a place where I could see the distant high peaks, I turned back. The solitary peak was once again shrouded in mystery, beckoning me. "Come again someday, and this time I'll show you," I surely heard. Was it an illusion? Was all that scenery nothing but a dream? I can't help but long to aim for that solitary mountain again someday to confirm it. Now, as I drink that solitary wine, there is one thing I can say. No matter how high the ideals or great the expectations with which you savor it, you will never be disappointed by that wine.

Loneliness, since the moment I was born into this world, I have lived without knowing true loneliness. There was always warmth near me. In times of real hardship, I was given healing, and when I was conceited, I was thrown into severity. That is how I have lived. Taking it for granted... I walk in darkness like a forsaken minstrel. Afraid of experiencing loneliness for the first time... When I suddenly stop, the pitch-black sky had already begun to take on a deep indigo hue. Here is a silent realm as far as the eye can see, where no serene spring exists, and therefore, no cool breeze crosses the water's surface. There is no spring to quench thirst nor wind to calm restlessness. Yet, there is salvation, there is healing, and above all, a tranquility that overflows as if to immerse oneself. Beyond the slowly brightening twilight, a soft, comforting shadow stands. The enigmatic "shadow" began to be draped in a faint garment of light. Its form, emerging like the waning moon, is solemn yet filled with compassion. Its presence is both human and cosmic. Its gaze, though lowered, sees everything. Its fingertips narrate eternal contemplation. Neither standing nor sitting, neither speaking nor laughing, and not merely silent. Neither happy nor unhappy, neither night nor morning. Neither sun nor moon. Yet you accept me. You quietly embrace me as I am. I find myself approaching, like a beloved child, like a cherished mother, feeling as if you are drawing my lonely shoulders close, drawn by an irresistible force, I step forward. Seeking the comfort of a cheek to rest upon. And I ask. What should I do? What meaning is there in living through the years to come? The Maitreya Bodhisattva in half-lotus contemplation. This wine answers the questions of the troubled with revelation.

At that time, I was brimming with confidence. Whether standing alone in the wilderness, wandering alone in a deep forest, losing my way, or swaying alone in a small boat on the vast ocean, I believed I would never be shaken. I poured this wine into a glass, and each time, I couldn't help but remember myself behaving fiercely like a young lion separated from the pride. Its aroma captures me and won't let go, like a nostalgic past or a fantasy of a brilliant future. I can't resist reaching out to taste it.

The sky is endlessly high, the horizon stretches as far as the eye can see, and the earth remains steadfast and unyielding. I am made aware of my own insignificance. A single melody solemnly resounds like a distant rumble of the earth, gently like the sound of the sea. It overlaps one by one, becoming a majestic and complex baroque that surrounds me and echoes endlessly. It appears like a towering ant hill. It feels like the cry of a crowd. It stands like a sacred pillar supporting the heavens. It appeals to me: Pray, not to God, but to the power of humanity. Aim, not for the heavens, but for the direction of the voice.

Oh, you who have lost sight of yourself. You who are arrogant and thus abandoned by others. You who are tossed about by daily life, or who simply drift, surrendering to the dizzying flow of time. Open your palms, confirm the power that surges within, and visit this land. Here lies a dream that never ends. Here stands a great incompleteness.

Antoni Gaudí. Did you believe that people would never give up and would continue to weave your dream? Did you believe in this miracle, where countless young people gather from the west and even from the far east, not seeking anything, wielding hammers, manipulating trowels, unafraid of sweating, and together, with all their might, continue to create beyond the dream you envisioned? This wine is the eternal unfinished Sagrada Familia.

This wine is an 'encounter'. An encounter always brings excitement and dynamism. People cannot change or find new paths without meeting others. However, when that encounter is with someone of the opposite sex, one might harbor unfulfilled desires, content with merely gazing from afar. A moment of thrill, a profile that embodies strength, gentleness, intensity, tranquility, a sharp self-respect, and graceful femininity—I understand it. You crave kindness. Yet, the kindness you seek is beyond my reach at present. Ah, beautiful person. Your smile, which intoxicates those who behold it, is sweet and bittersweet. Though modest, you stand tall with dignity, looking straight into the eyes, possessing within you a beast-like eros and a saintly purity. You are always moving forward, never pausing, aiming for something. The reason I cannot grasp what that is, is because I am still immature, and it is not your fault. For you live amidst the sun, the earth, and the wind. With golden hair fluttering in the breeze, you are brimming with confidence, looking back at me. 'Follow me, if you can.' This wine is a woman and a tree. A solitary tree standing in a vast meadow, always swaying in the wind. The leaves, rustling and swaying in the breeze, shimmer under the pouring sun. This tree silently embraces all of me. Ah, the moments of youth, the wine that captivated me. You were there if I reached out my hand, yet you were the 'Madonna' in a portrait that could never be reached.

I have kept running, overcoming various difficulties, aiming for the promised land. Each difficulty was a detestable presence when it stood before me. Yet, when I look back, it feels nostalgic, even though it wasn't that long ago. Now I understand. Success is the "moon," and difficulties are the "sun." Without the sun, the moon can never shine. Similarly, success without difficulties does not stir the human heart. Success is the "fruit," and difficulties are the "earth." Without wrestling with the earth, one cannot obtain the fruit. Likewise, success without grounding brings no joy. Now I understand. Now I can convey it. As I hold victory in my hands and am about to taste the fruit. But how is it? Conveying this to those who come after is both difficult and nothing but arrogance. Precisely because it is nothing but arrogance, I wish to entrust this role to wine. The pleasant fatigue in my legs, the heart that seems about to burst yet still yearns for victory. Behold, the gate of triumph is within reach. The bursting sweat is a sacred drop befitting only those who have overcome suffering. The hero runs through the final track, greeted by the cheers of the people, with pride in his heart. Raise your hands to the sky, and be welcomed with the triumphant roar. The various crowns of red flowers bestowed by the goddess, the splendid feast celebrating the victor. This wine is a hidden passion. This wine is the source of strength to overcome difficulties. This wine is the ambition that dreams of glorious success. This wine is the fruit in hand, the exhilaration of the young hero who tasted it, and the unforgettable "aftertaste of victory."

Is it night here, or is it the depths of the earth? With intense vitality swelling within me, I wait like a seed for the right moment. The quest to find the meaning of life, wandering endlessly, is never easy. It is a cycle of looking back, rushing forward, and pausing to ponder.

Gestation and then birth. Crawling out of the darkness, guided by the allure of light, I aim for the unseen sky. Piercing through the horizon that separates the depths of the earth from the dazzling outer world, I stretch my hands to the heavens like a budding tree. Light. The long-awaited light. I surge towards the boundless sky, becoming a giant tree reaching for the heavens.

The vast land spreads beneath me, the crucible of life—soil, water, grass, flowers, beasts, humans, and even the smallest insects—I now observe from the void. A verse of a song comes to mind: "When hearing the nightingale singing to the flowers and the frogs living in the water, is there any living creature that does not compose a song? Without exertion, it moves heaven and earth, even unseen spirits feel compassion, it soothes the bonds between men and women, and comforts the hearts of fierce warriors."

Is this what Earth looks like from the universe, a gentle glow floating in the midst of darkness, the source of life? This wine is a soul. This wine is the land seen from above. This wine is the expanse of the universe. And this wine is "hope."

This wine carries the wind. When I sought his blood in pursuit of passion, I learned. The wind that soothes the sweat, its refreshing nature, the richness of the wind blowing across the scorching earth. When I poured this wine, etched with the sunset, into my glass, I saw winds of many colors. Perhaps the reason the wind carries a hint of loneliness is because it is always departing. I am lifted by the wind, soaring into the sky. As I gaze down from the sky, detached from the boundless richness of the earth, I cannot help but think of the time of farewell that will one day come to me. At that moment, I remember those happy times when my family was together. As I watch the days of meeting, living together, suffering, loving, and continuously giving drift away with the wind, I stand still. And for the first time, I understand that farewell is the beginning of everything. O sun, shine down, nurture life. O rain, wet the earth, quench and heal all living things. O wind, carry the seeds of life to new worlds. I simply watch them off. Standing like a tree, suddenly struck by the burning sunset deep in my eyes. The story of light and shadow woven into the heavens and earth. Only the wind, which soothes the heat, gently caresses my cheek. Farewell, my beloved. You are me, and I am you. Like a tree reaching eternally towards the sky, like roots silently spreading deep into the earth. Like seeds traveling endlessly on the wind. May life be like that. O wind, where will you take me? O sun, from where do you watch over me? This time I will set out on a journey from this horizon. A journey of creation that I can embark on precisely because I have lived and endured. When reflecting on life, there is a parting born of love. A back that never looks back. The strength, kindness, and understanding to gaze at it forever. The passion and expectation of being able to start anew from nothing. The premonition of a new departure. Someday, you too will see this sunset. And someday, you will feel it. This wine is the wind departing with the sun.

I am walking. Emerging from a moss-covered dark forest, a sun-drenched hill opens up before me. Yet, the hill is again shrouded in mist, and I lose the path I should take. I am walking again. It is a serene temple. The long corridor, etched with history, is intermittently lit by light, uncertain of where it leads. Suddenly, I find myself enclosed in a cage. However, this cage is not meant to confine or torment. Rather, it is a divine play to deepen the joy that awaits beyond. I encounter a supple lioness. She gazes at me intently with tawny eyes. Is she in love with me? Those eyes that seem to draw me in. As I try to approach, she flees, her back rippling like waves. I am alone once more. And I start walking. I am walking. A market in the afternoon, overflowing with colorful fruits, flowers, straw hats, silk fabrics, and smiles. I savor everything, slowly enjoying the passage of time. Eating whimsically, exchanging words whimsically, and relaxing. I am swimming. In a deep, bottomless, transparent spring. I slowly slip away into the endless expanse of the grand blue. Is this warmth, or is it gentle despair? If it is despair, I may never return. I go on a picnic. With whom? It is obvious. With my younger self. My younger self looks at the old me with curiosity. And the old me watches over the young me as he runs freely. Both are the same me. A single bottle of wine. I am puffing on a pipe, gazing at the distant sea. The sun has long set, and the twilight begins to close my view. I had fallen asleep without realizing it. In my younger days, I braved stormy seas with fervor. As I aged, I moved forward, firming the ground beneath me, sometimes climbing walls, descending slopes, crying, laughing, getting angry, rejoicing. As I reached twilight, I looked back on the path I had walked, but saw nothing, only a trail of footprints. Footprints that can never return, my own solitary footprints, and I suddenly awaken. The freshly brewed tea still retains its warmth. Sixty years were but a fleeting dream. This wine is a long, short dream brought by a slumber. This wine is eternal, and yet a moment.