I opened my eyes. It's 7 in the morning. I fell asleep again. I looked at the clock, struggling with arms and legs to get up. It's 7:30. My eyes closed again. I have to get up. Only the arms and legs flutter as if the body of the bug, which has been battered and flattened, sticks to the floor. The more I try to get up, the more I get stretched out. When I flounder my arms and legs, I thought I was like a bug, but when I tried to take my back off, my back wouldn't come off the mattress like a overturned turtle's back. The head is also stiff as if a body crushed it.
One morning, I remembered the main character of the Kafka's novel 'Transformation,' in which a man who had to go to work suddenly turned into a bug. The main character lives as a bug, cannot leave the room, and is abused by his family. I have to get up if I don't want to be abused.
My legs, which were roaming the streets of Manhattan, are just going back and forth from one room to the other by Cobid-19. What should I wear to go out looking into the calendar that was packed with schedules? Unlike in the past, when I was thinking about what to eat, I spend time sipping wine. I think I've hit the limit now.
The rashes have risen all over the body as if popcorn was swelling from 15 days ago. I woke up while scratching, scratching, and fell asleep at dawn. The body is heavy so cannot get up. I skipped many days for a walk. My body was drooping and my life routine was broken. After taking the allergy medication, the hives that had popped out surprisingly went into, as if sorry. If I didn't take the medicine, the rashes held out again as if they were testy. Drunk on medicine, I spent a half-sleepless. Am I just going to live lie down like this? Or will I get up? The longer I delayed, the more I feared it would extend into my habits. I managed to get up with all my might. I ran to the park in fear that I would lie back on the bed.
I put my torso on two pieces of wood, and walked, as if walking. I sank into an open-air dining chair in Riverside Park, where I could see the Hudson River. It's before the restaurant door opens. The Hispanic man is getting ready to greet the guest. The pants on the dwarf body are too long. Under the pants that have been folded several times, can only see the nose of the black sneakers. He also wore a big white kitchen shirt's the shoulder line came down to his elbow.
The moment I saw him, buried in a large white garment and calmly sweeping with his tall broom, he looks seemed to be a young monk who sweeping temple yard in a quiet early morning. He puts the table and chair in place and thoroughly cleans them. Carefully insert red parasols one by one on the center pole of the 10 dining tables, pull the string and open the umbrella like a flower. Empty the trash in the 5 trash bins around the open-air restaurant and put on a black empty trash bag.
His calm movements cause me to rise. I slowly seek life, urging me to become a woman who leads a sincere life like this man. I slowly find my vitality. I think I'm going to live some now.
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