CHRONICALLY COCKROACH

I saw a cockroach this morning: a shiny, tiny insect with its disgusting reputation - and I had a hard time whether or not to step on it.

Best decision of today: letting it slip into a sink on its own; letting it go.

Then, I wondered what if I really had stepped on it, flattened it dead under the sole of my lovely brown-beaded shoes? It would be, undoubtedly, drop-dead DEAD! That's all. End of the story.

But, what if I had done something else than killing it? Like just what I did today! Guess I would never know: what would happen to the survived cockroach. Really, never know.

But, at least, I know what happened to me who saved it: I felt at ease, more human.

Cockroaches are not things I can talk with; neither can I meet casually nor befriend with, especially that one I survived this morning; it's either him or her.

What makes it impossible for me to know what would happen to it is the impossibility to have an emotional connection with - errr... a cockroach. I am not talking crazy now, or nonsense. I just try to metaphor my situation.

If, by any power and chance, I could ever talk to it, I might figure out just how it felt to be left alive, set free, and untouched. Would it be such a relief for it? Would it be such a comfort for me, too? For I might felt the great feeling of letting go of something - only to see it alive, walk, and even being disgusting! It might even be happy! For something as insignificant as a cockroach, I would sell my soul only to see it just alive.

 I will trade my soul, just to see someone smile.

It's about letting go - when one part of it is mysteriously unknown, while the other one is obviously revealed and exhibited.

picture: private document