From time to time I think of the story of the cat and the boy. The boy has crawled into his secret hideout inside a tall stack of firewood, and he is crying. The world he has been given holds nothing but shame and despair. He decides to end everything right there, by pulling out the one log holding up the great pile above his head. Remembering the cookie in his pocket, he takes it out and eats it first. Then, just as he reaches for the log, a cat appears.
When the cat comes close and begins licking his wet cheek, the boy closes his eyes at the damp, raspy touch. It is warm enough to make him withdraw his grievous plan. The boy knows. What the cat is licking is not his tears but the cookie crumbs stuck around his mouth.
Years later, the boy writes this:
“If you truly want to be loved purely, you had better keep a few cookie crumbs in your pocket.”
This is a story I love. Not only for its advice — don’t dig into what is really at work behind the outer shell of love; surrender yourself to the warmth of the moment. I know what this story is. It is the story of a hungry cat and a boy drowning in sorrow. Hunger and despair. The moment such feelings recognize each other on the outskirts of happiness, they cross the border and quietly form an alliance. They use each other, yet no lie comes between them. In that they part after one brushing embrace, hoping never to meet again, it may be the loneliest alliance in the world.
When I heard the story of the sad boy and the hungry cat from my mother, I wondered which of the two I was. Neither, it turned out. I seemed to be something more like the crumbs. It suits the person I am now, living an idle life that is anything but careful. But I don’t mean it badly. If the crumbs can call a cat over once in a while, living as crumbs doesn’t seem so bad.
— Eun Hee-kyung, The Summer Lawn of T Island (T아일랜드의 여름잔디밭)