In a park where I felt like I was told I was being boorish in the twilight.

For the first time in a while, I passed by the park without any particular intention. It is by no means a large park, but it has something that seems to draw people in. Since it is usually bustling with small children and beautiful mothers having casual chats, I naturally make it a point to pass by at those times.

At that time of day, it was a park with no one around, the kind of twilight that makes you want to call it the 'dusk hour'.

I felt like stopping by the empty park all by myself. I felt like I wanted to drop in. My steps felt lighter than I expected. Perhaps it felt that it wouldn't be bad to let the dull me take the lead for once; that empty twilight even seemed to be calling out to me, the lonely-looking me, to take the lead in order to enhance the sense of solitude.

The square park had only two benches: one under a streetlamp and one a little further away.

I found myself wanting to know the distance between the two benches. Since it seemed shorter than the 172 centimeters of my height if I were to lie down next to them, I felt it was shorter than 172 centimeters that day. However, even if I knew the details, I am only 172 centimeters for this day, and I don't know how to convey that preciousness or transience to anyone, so I stopped thinking about it.

I sat down on the bench under the streetlamp for no particular reason. When I sit on a bench, I try to sit as far to the edge as possible. This is in preparation for the possibility that a woman might suddenly appear and, while looking at the empty bench next to me, say, 'May I sit next to you? I think you have just enough to be worthy of sitting beside me.'

The woman inside me never hesitates to appear suddenly. So, I want to let her sit next to me as smoothly as possible.

I sat on the bench under the streetlamp and looked at the bench next to me. I felt that the brightness, not directly illuminated by the streetlamp, would create a calm and romantic space. I wondered how many men and women it had made the protagonists of the night. I wanted to sit firmly on the bench, which makes me want to call the night 'boya' (twilight), and interview it, asking, 'How many romances have you supported from there?' but I stopped, fearing I would be called boorish in the twilight.

A slide was visible in my field of vision.

I, who am over forty and sitting on a bench in a park with no one else around, enjoying being the protagonist of the twilight hour, felt that there was nothing strange about me enjoying a slide meant for someone over forty. While thinking about how funny it would be if I, who am always 'slipping up' in life, actually slid down, I hesitated all by myself.

I even wanted to interview myself after sliding down alone, asking, 'As the leading expert in embodying the act of slipping, how do you feel right now?' I thought I would surely meet an interesting version of myself.

I climbed the stairs of the slide, grabbing the handrails on both sides, moving gently step by step. I felt the width between the steps was narrow. As expected, the slide must be for children. I felt this was not something to be climbed at a run. I felt a little proud that this difficulty in climbing might be proof that I had become an adult.

Memories came flooding back of when I was small, grabbing the handrails and climbing the stairs, my feet landing in just the right spots to transfer power, climbing lightly with a rhythmic 'tap, tap, tap'.

'It's dangerous, so don't run. You have to look ahead when you slide, or it's no good.'

The memory of being scolded by a slightly more mature girl behind me also came back. I could say that the current me, who realized that the incident at the slide might have been a romance, is not at all wrong for having such a vivid memory of that mature girl.

Unconsciously, I wanted to be told those words by someone one more time, so I tried climbing up at a run with all my might, even though it felt cramped.

I didn't hear the 'tap, tap, tap,' but I climbed to the very last step with the best footwork a forty-two-year-old could muster. To show it off brilliantly, I absolutely could not afford to miss a step, so my grip on the handrails was at maximum output, just in case I did. Fortunately, the handrails, which were about the same thickness as a wooden sword, allowed me to exert so much force that I felt I could crush even iron handrails if I really tried, given that I practice swinging a sword regularly.

In other words, I could endure it even if I missed a step. It meant I could probably remain still in the posture I was in if I did miss. This sense of security led to me being able to exert my maximum strength. At an age where maximum caution is required while trying to appear light on my feet, I focused all my nerves on my feet, knowing I absolutely could not fail.

I ran up the last step and lifted my face in exhilaration, only to hit a bar with my head. I learned that a life spent looking down and not looking up brings no good. The force with which I ran up gave me a gift of maximum impact. The unexpected blow, even if I recognized the pain, had a delayed sensation. I felt as if my head was saying that the iron of this day was harder than any iron I had encountered in my life, and tears welled up in my eyes. I learned that the true embarrassment of facing something at this age is not being able to cry out, but just having to endure it.

I was thoroughly disgusted with myself for checking if I had a bump on my head while alone on the park slide because of the throbbing pain that wouldn't stop, and for being on the verge of tears, but at the same time, I felt gratitude toward the park for making me the protagonist of a comedy. This is a stage too good to be left to just one person.

I thought that I was the most interesting person in the world right now, yet no one was watching. That was exactly who I thought I was.

At the very least, I decided to step onto the slide to end it all with a spectacular slip, like a tragic protagonist in a comedy. I slid my right foot forward, crouched with my left, pushed my body out with the strength of both hands, and firmly held my arms out like a hopping vampire.

My butt got stuck.

I don't think more than a few seconds had passed to process the situation, but I had been prepared to slide out while still in my vampire pose. Everything was ready to go, yet I wasn't moving. My angle and posture were so precise that they could have been adopted by any video or manual on how to use a slide.

Even though my mind was braced for the sensation of sliding, my brain, suddenly struck by the unexpected lack of sliding, seemed completely unable to decide what emotion to give me.

Huh?

I was even more surprised that such an unbelievable "huh" came out of my own mouth. I was fully living out the life of a 42-year-old twilight-gazing in a park, stuck in a slide that wouldn't let me slide at all.

With my head and my stuck butt aching, I grabbed both sides of the slide with all my might, pulled myself to make it slide, and set the record for the slowest slide in my personal history.

It's dangerous, so don't run. You have to look ahead when you slide, you know.

When I retorted, "I can't slide even if I look ahead," I saw that mature girl from that day saying goodbye.

I decided to consider myself the protagonist who embodied the concept of not sliding on a slide. I stood firmly in front of the slide and checked the width of the slide against the width of my butt over and over again. By my estimation, it still looked narrow, but it felt like it would fit securely.

I started to worry that perhaps the world I was seeing wasn't the real world. I turned around and turned my feet toward the swings. The swing was telling me to sit on it.

Based on my estimation, physical sensation, and life experience up to this point, I thought I could sit on it. However, since the world had just confronted me with the error of my own senses, I became a little cautious.

I checked the width of the slide with my hands and held them against my butt. It fit after all. I measured it a bit smaller, but it still fit. I succeeded in rethinking that it must have been a mistake that I got stuck.

I went in front of the swing, measured the width with my hands in the same way, and held them against my butt. It fit. In that case, I couldn't think of any way other than to sit.

My butt got stuck again.

I knew I was stuck. The chains were digging into both of my thighs, and it hurt.

However, my mind rebelled. You checked it so many times, didn't you? I was being asked if I was going to doubt what I had just confirmed with my own hands, just because the chains were digging into my thighs a little bit.

I decided to believe in myself, as I didn't want to doubt myself. I blew away the pain and swung the swing. The swing was made for children, and if I bent my legs, they would hit the ground, so I held a V-sit position while still stuck.

That swing drew the most beautiful semicircle in my personal history. When I got off the swing, I used the momentum of the forward swing to leave the seat smartly, so as not to let myself realize I was stuck.

If I thought it wouldn't hurt, it didn't.

I thought that if I didn't doubt myself, I could change the world on my own.

I crouched on the ground, grabbed a fallen branch, and after writing "thank you" on the ground to the park that had created my stage,

I whispered, "What are you talking about?"

I left the park, and without looking back,

I decided to forget the pain in my head and my backside.