Corona, us, empathy essay
“Sister, is it okay to meet me? Let’s not blame each other!”
We, who lived close and did not meet often, put the possibility that we may have been contaminated from the corona, and made an appointment with such a joke. It was a solid promise that contained an overly strong commitment.
The biggest reason we couldn’t make an appointment even though we texted and spoke with regards to us was because our residence was wearing the modifier’one after another’.
It was only a few months, so I was excited and waited for me first, but my younger brother took off his hat and complained.
“so hot.”
“Sure. It’s too hot. It’s already summer. When was the last time we met?”
Even as the seasons changed several times, we hid at home like fugitives.
Suddenly the younger brother said while talking about a new life pattern that he had never thought of before-such as a minimal outing for survival and a late night walk.
“The craziest thing among them is that my normal routine has disappeared.”
The spoken words felt too heavy.
The younger brother had a young daughter who was now four years old.
It was a few months ago that I liked that I was going to a public kindergarten this year.
Except for the occasional part-time job manuscript writing, he was the younger brother who would have stayed with his daughter at home.
“Mom comes here sometimes. Leave it to me and go anywhere!”
“Where? Where!”
I replied to relieve my mind, but I couldn’t figure it out either.
Where can I go?
“Someone said, “The days of traveling freely are over. My generation is the last. What should I do now?”
‘It will be okay after winter.’ ‘I won’t go over spring.’ Having endured months with these vague expectations, we had to accept the despair of tomorrow without such a countermeasure.
Since Coronavirus 19 took over the ground, we have all been robbed. No one is free.
The children haven’t gone to school, and they seldom eat at home.
I’m afraid to go to the concert hall, and I can’t even watch a movie with cola and popcorn.
I also hesitate to say hello to someone I met in the elevator.
Days as bright as the Pyongyang cold noodles we eat.
I suddenly sighed as to what kind of consolation I could give each other.
“What’s the hardest thing? Can’t travel?”
My brother raised his head to my question.
“What do you think, you think you’re just doing huh, song, three, month? I have time, but I don’t know what you’re doing.”
My brother’s eyes seemed to be moist.
I blinked violently as if I had seen it wrong. No matter how much I looked at again, it was unexpectedly sad eyes.
“Don’t cry. Don’t cry!”
I spoke playfully and looked into my brother’s face for a long time.
The boy was walking with his dad.
I don’t know when it started, but they are heading south, carrying a backpack with a tarp and some groceries.
The world has turned gray and forgetting that the sea is’blue’-they walk on the road.
This is the story of the novel The Road.
Among the novels I’ve ever seen, this’most desperate’ story contains a record of survival with no beginning or end.
Father and son, who have fallen into a situation of’a disaster’, are heading south to’protect the fire’.
My father’s biggest worries are shoes and food. And it’s about living tonight.
One day, they had a chance to take their own lives.
But I didn’t.
Should I regret being alive in cruel pain?
Don’t tell me, I’ll do whatever
What are you going to do? This is something you should have done a long time ago. When the gun had three bullets instead of two. I was stupid. It was already over. I didn’t come this far myself. I was dragged. But now it’s done. I tried not to tell you either. That would have been better. You only have two bullets. Then what will you do? You can’t protect us. You’ll die for us, but what’s the point? If it’s not you, I’ll take him too. You know I can. That’s the right thing to do.
There are times when the process of survival is so difficult that you want to give up.
That’s what I often think of when fighting a painful illness.
People who feel like torture that they are alive want to find a’new lover’ and leave.
The woman left them after this conversation with the man.
The man left behind took the boy and left again.
The two walked again and again. Waiting for the light in the dark. Wandering looking for food to survive.
The man who barely survived the crisis of death spoke to the boy.
Can I tell you a story?
no.
Why?
The boy looked at the man and looked at him.
Why?
Such a story is not real.
It doesn’t have to be real. It’s a story.
Yes. But in those stories, we always help people, but we don’t.
Then can you tell me?
I don’t want to do it.
okay.
I have nothing to say.
You just have to tell your own story.
You already know my story. I saw it from the side.
There’s a story inside you that I don’t know.
Is it like a dream?
Something like a dream. Or it just reminds me of you.
Yes. But the story has to be happy.
You don’t have to.
Dad always tells me happy stories.
Don’t you have any happy stories?
It’s similar to what we live in.
But not my story.
Yes, not about Dad.
The man looked at the boy.
Is it so bad for us to live?
What do you think of Dad?
Well, I think it’s important that we’re still here though. A lot of bad things have happened, but we are still here.
Our lives have changed.
It is a completely different life from before Coronavirus 19 invaded the world.
I couldn’t go where I wanted, and the unknown, unfamiliar space became taboo.
Our lives are under control and come into statistics. Live under surveillance.
Maybe while we are rebuilding the order of life that has been messed up, how can we talk to each other?
I want to ask my brother again.
“Aren’t we very bad about living?”
If my younger brother asks me how I am, I want to answer like this.
“It’s still important that we’re still alive. A lot of bad things have happened, but we can meet like this. We can talk.”
It’s very uncomfortable, but can it be comforting to be able to do it?
To be alive.