language barrier?

When I press the leftmost rectangular key on my keyboard, it switches from 한 to A.

Or A to 한, and vice versa.

I feel that it was always like this. Switching between two minds, two brains, two worlds, like birds would do while sleeping. One side awake, one side asleep. I would have to wake them up for it to work. I would have to open and close the door a trillion times a day, and the door would start resembling a swinging motion, for me to enter and exit a trillion times through it.

I don’t quite remember the day when the door disappeared, or rather, merged with the air surrounding it. I didn’t need a door anymore. I could just jump across the doorsill—the only part left of proof that there was once a door, there.

What didn’t merge was the worlds themselves. There was still a night and a day; surrounding the wall would be day, and inside the walls would be night. I still cannot quite flow in and out freely, as if there wasn’t a wall separating the two.

That’s been more than half of my life. Opening and closing doors, waking up and putting asleep two sides of the same planet, figuring out what to say while standing on the edge of the doorsill.

Pressing the 한/A key, again and again.