Cactus-like

Every alley in the city is polluted with smoke coming from tall buildings. The cars are constantly pounding on the road, suffering the noise they pour out. Especially I wake up in the middle of the night, in the siren sound of the ambulance.

It was midnight when I was a child. I felt something close to me. I opened my eyes and ears. Someone was coming near the door through the gate. I got out of a bed and killing the sound and I approached the window. A small, skinny man is approaching the front door with care. Why does he come to our door with tiptoe in the middle of the night? Try to steal? I tried to shout ‘thief!' But I stopped. On closer look, he is a familiar neighbor.

As he slowly approached the door with his stupid looks, I wanted to make him jump as if he were burnt. I grabbed a round fulling stick next to me and knocked on the cabinet door with all my strength. A sudden tear in the silence made him run away with his heart broken. Was not it the loudest and grotesque sound I've ever made?

Ever since, in the broad daylight, I have met the thief from time to time on the street. I thought he might have noticed, so I pretended to see the distant mountain and moved away diligently to hide into the alley with a quick gesture. He was looking around and looking for something to steal. His back looked so shabby and small. Was that why? I did not tell anyone that he was a thief.

I have been a light sleeper since I was a child. It was not only a light sleeper, but the five senses always reacted sensitively to what was happening around in tension. Even if it was a little cold or hot, I was frightened. Whoever looked at me, I was nervous. I did not like anyone sitting close to me or lying down, I made it difficult for my mother to find fault with all kinds of things the happening around me. Even my mother tried to feed me a nerve-killing herbal medicine to me?

The same is true of old age. But it is not what it used to be. There is no one who can accept my five senses panic after my parents have passed away. What about my husband? No. I wonder if it is hard to make a bristle because it is crushed like pickled cucumbers with a strange marriage. My sensitive sensation may have changed slightly due to pressure of my husband, who resembled a round stone pressing cucumbers tightly in a jar.

Still, I want to compare myself to a cactus rather than a pickled cucumber. As a cactus with thorns all over its body turning toward the light, occupying the window corner waiting for someone.