So it goes.


Now and then I hear somebody wondering at people talking to themselves. But these apparently senseless monologues are not that different in nature from the average phone conversation or even from the act of sitting in front of a screen. The reason people are so easily engrossed and addicted to things like television and the internet, why they even feel the need for games and shows and magazines, is kind of obvious, really. And it’s the same with their love of sociability and, in the end, with most of the things they do, actually. It seems people are afraid of being left alone with that meandering little voice in their heads that speaks to them about the terrifying side of their lives, about the everyday minutest vile truths.

“This is what it’s going to be like, this is how it has always been. There is no such thing as a present, time is forever the same. Can’t you see death is not beyond the curve, nor is it at your heels? It’s eating away at you from your viscera. You are your own gravedigger.”

And it’s not only speaking of grand things as death. It also knows of all the causes for remorse and regret, of the flavorlessness of days and years wasted delaying and downsizing possibilities, of trading ideals for trim junk. It knows of the raised voices and commonplace prevarications, of the unforgivable word said out of arrogant stupidity, whether or not it was taken back at a later date. It knows of the broken promise, the withdrawn hand, and the inattentive ear; of the crushing weight of rejected responsibilities, whose embrace reaches far and wide. How relatively easy it is to drown the little voice in background noise and to live the illusion of resetting the clock each day. The more encompassing the daily racket, the better. How convenient that these days the nights are short and every threatening hint of loneliness is pushed at the corners.


After his brother had left, Daisuke sat without moving for some time. When Kadono came to clear the tea service, Dai­suke suddenly stood and said, “Kadono-san, I’m going out to look for a job.” Then he immediately put on his cap and flew out into the heat of the day without even taking a parasol.
Daisuke hurried in the heat, almost breaking into a run. The sun shone straight down upon his head. The dry dust covered his bare feet like powdered fire. He felt as if he were being scorched.
As he walked, he repeated to himself, “I’m burning, I’m burning.”
When he came to Iidabashi he got on a streetcar. The streetcar began to move straight ahead. Inside the car, Dai­suke said, “Oh, it’s moving, the world’s moving,” loudly enough to be heard by those around him. His head began to spin at the same speed as the car. The more it spun, the more flushed he became from the heat. If he could ride like this for half a day, he thought he could be burnt to ashes.
Suddenly, a red mailbox caught his eye. The red color immediately leaped into Daisuke’s head and began to spin around and around. An umbrella shop sign had four red umbrellas hanging one on top of the other. The color of these umbrel­las also leaped into Daisuke’s head and whirled around. At an intersection someone was selling bright red balloons. As the streetcar sharply turned the corner, the balloons followed and leaped in to Daisuke’s head. A red car carrying parcel post passed close by the streetcar in the opposite direction, and its color was also sucked in to Daisuke’s head. The tobacco shop curtain was red. A banner announcing a sale was also red. The telephone pole was red. One after another, there were signs painted in red. Finally, the whole world turned red. And with Daisuke’s head at the center, it began to spin round and round, breathing tongues of fire. Daisuke decided to go on riding until his head was completely burnt away.

And Then, Natsume Sōseki.

Living Cracks

In the relentless whitewashing of time, contours are wasting away. This time too, I will eat my liver out until I forget. It really seems I run out of breath again, in the middle of the race — no, not in the middle, much earlier indeed — when things had just started taking a vague shape. Regardless of it all, I will stay behind.

Hopeful, each time I start a minor venture, deeming it an ultimate possibility. And thus I want to absorb everything, everything until I burst. The ego swells, following the currents I float for a while. Until that impassable crevasse that is always the great divide between being and enduring is reached.

Within cracked banks of mediocrity I live.
Dispossessed, nibbling at days.

Complaints of a Lesser Scholar

These days I am just writing and writing and by now I lost track of the core of any discourse. I should just destroy everything and start over, but I am too bored with writing to do it and I don’t have the time. Sense slowly leaks out of the sentences as soon as I add words. Even when I try to describe things, the description becomes more and more nebulous. And the logical arrangement of the sentences is non-existent. Disjointed paragraphs are all over the place, phrases with holes everywhere. Something I thought over begins, but then is interrupted by a plethora of silly diversions. Why all these talks, in the first place? I look at these photos and my imagination is set in  motion. But when I am asked to define them, to know where they belong to, why they were put on paper, it becomes trivial somehow, and the words I write are just trying to patch this feeling of triviality.

Smothering Wrath

Some days I just want to destroy everything
To dig deep furrows in the flesh of existence.
But the face of existence is harder than my broken finger
All the fury is reduced to a whimper.

September Takes Everything Away

Even the dead water of this black pool has a soul, although still and remote. These people, they can succeed because they are alive. I am barren and extinct. What simulates life on the exterior is a growth like fungus that clings to the skin, shifting and inflating tissue, stretching impressions for what it’s worth. This ascending movement of the hand, the oily glint of the eye, are not life, not at all. They are surrogates, nature moving along reasonable trails. The sparse words randomly dropped, too, are not life. It’s not purpose that I lack — I don’t even know the meaning of purpose — it’s life. I killed something, somewhere, at some point, and I can’t remember what it was. Maybe it was something that was never there in the first place.