裸で踊る妖精

After graduating from university, I had a clear plan: spend three years in a major corporation to learn Japan’s corporate culture, move on to a start-up to gain management experience, and eventually establish my own company.

Though I applied for a technical position, HR placed me in sales. I thought, “It’s only three years—sales will help me grow.” The first six months were training, with lectures, practice, and weekend barbecues that felt like returning to student life.

Assigned to Tokyo Sales, I found myself in a department of hundreds, mostly middle-aged men; women were less than ten percent, often treated as ornaments without a voice. One supervisor, nearing fifty, bragged endlessly about past glories and squandered fortunes on lottery tickets. Another was unkempt, foul-smelling, and crude. I endured with a forced smile, drawing on patience learned in hostessing jobs.

Despite being a rookie, I was given the largest client in eastern Japan. I accompanied them on factory tours, drank at endless dinners, and collapsed in my hotel room after ensuring the customer was satisfied. Taiwanese clients demanded my company during trips to Tokyo, even asking me to escort them to Shibuya nightclubs. Acting as interpreter between them and heavily made-up hostesses felt like stepping into a horror film.

In a corporation of this scale, orders depended on brand trust, not sales skill. Pricing and production were decided by the factory; sales merely relayed messages. My performance was strong, yet I doubted my worth. I turned to the writings of Confucianism, Taoism, and Buddhism, seeking wisdom. Fascinated by Tibet as a Buddhist sanctuary, I planned a trip during vacation. Fearing to go alone, I traveled with a small business owner I met online. In his thirties, already graying from overwork, he listened as I spoke of Laozi’s “Wu Wei.” But at the hotel, with only one room booked, he forced himself on me despite my resistance, leaving me with a deeper wound.

Snow-capped peaks and vast grasslands reflected in mirror-like lakes—heaven felt within reach. Tibetan pilgrims, prostrating along the road, wore tattered clothes but carried eyes of crystal clarity. I wondered: could my soul, trapped in a tainted body, still bloom into a pure lotus? Perhaps true liberation lies in seeing through joy and sorrow, letting go, and ending life quietly under the blue lamp of the Buddha.

After breaking up with my Korean boyfriend, I began to hate myself more and more. Every night I drowned in alcohol, drinking at the Ginza club and then moving on to Roppongi until dawn. Heavy makeup could no longer hide my dark circles and pale face—I felt I was burning out. I grew closer to some customers. One company executive in his fifties always handed me a thick tip before leaving. One night, when I pouted that my feet hurt, he suddenly carried me on his back and ran through the night streets. For a moment, I saw the young boy hidden beneath his aging body. After we slept together, he gave me a bundle of bills for a taxi. Wanting to save money, I walked to the station instead. On the platform, I touched that money—my “price”—and felt so light I might cross the yellow line. In the nightlife world, girls dreamed of finding patrons to get out of the nightlife or open their own shops. Amid that illusion, I met a lawyer in his sixties who offered me a job at his office. I translated documents and taught Chinese. The pay was less than the club, but enough for tuition and living expenses. With a steady routine, I pushed myself to catch up in class. Programming was the hardest, so I sought help from an international student who was a “god-level” programmer. Over time, we naturally became a couple. His family ran a business in southern China, and he freelanced in IT, later securing clients on his own. He even earned patents. Often, he massaged my feet while coding, and I fell asleep beside him. Those days were peaceful and happy. But meeting his family unsettled me. His father, a successful businessman, surrounded himself with women, while his mother endured silently. Shockingly, my boyfriend justified it, saying, “For excellent men, having other women is normal.” His close friend, already engaged, bragged openly about his affairs. Back in Japan, I discovered my boyfriend’s betrayal. He begged forgiveness, but I knew men like him—just like his father and friend—could never stay with one woman. I ended it. By junior year, it was time to choose between graduate school or work. My lab, focused on human science and medical devices, meant monotonous experiments, and I couldn’t bear two more years. I chose to work. After catching up on grades, I earned a school recommendation and entered a well-known Japanese company. Sometimes I wonder—if I had accepted my professor’s introduction to a medical device firm in Shanghai, would my life have been completely different?

I defied my parents’ objections and entered Waseda University. To cover the steep tuition, I worked four part-time jobs at once, sleeping only four hours a night. There was an invisible hierarchy on campus: at the top were wealthy students from Waseda’s affiliated schools, followed by brilliant minds from affluent families, and at the bottom—foreign students like me. Most of my fellow Chinese students had political or business connections; I was the only one from humble roots. As one of the few women in the engineering faculty, I kept my distance from men out of insecurity, which only seemed to intrigue them—one even stole my used towel to show off. I envied classmates lounging under the sun with designer bags and Starbucks coffee. Remembering my roommate who worked in Ginza and earned far more than I did, I decided to do the same—not just for tuition and living costs, but also to feed my vanity. The “mama-san,” a Chinese beauty in kimono, managed a team of Chinese, Japanese, Filipino, and Russian hostesses. The job rapidly improved my Japanese, and many customers were gentlemen who took us to high-end restaurants my parents would never visit. Through a senior in the education faculty, I rented a small house and found two roommates. During the move, I met my first boyfriend—a Korean man, eight years older, handsome, muscular, and kind. Even after long days, he would pick me up at night, once transforming my backyard into a fairy-tale scene and lifting me into a princess carry. He clearly envisioned marriage, but my vanity grew, and I began comparing him to Ginza patrons, pushing him to buy me luxury goods. By my second year, my newcomer glow had faded, and customers’ demands became bolder. I drank heavily, sometimes meeting them outside the club, feeling degraded and disposable. I remembered my childhood vow—to live only until 35—and realized I had no future. I knew I could never marry him, and I ended the relationship.

After a year of indulgent and uncertain university life in China, I finally boarded a plane to Japan to reunite with my parents. When my mother first arrived, she spoke no Japanese and worked in a pickle factory in Yamanashi, her hands cracked like old tree bark from soaking in brine all day. Later, she learned a few phrases and became a kitchen helper at a Japanese restaurant in Shinjuku Takashimaya. It was less physically demanding, but the sharp-tongued older women there constantly picked on her. Unable to fight back in Japanese, she hid in a corner and wept, swallowing every grievance for the sake of survival.

My father worked at a Hong Kong restaurant, and life was a little more stable. They rented a tiny one-bedroom apartment in Chiba, over forty years old, furnished mostly with items found on the street. I shared the bedroom with my mother; my father slept in the living room.

Soon after arriving, I began working at a small izakaya in Shimbashi. The 70-year-old owner and chef never blamed me for my clumsy Japanese, and even let me study when business was slow. Almost every Japanese woman wore makeup, so I started to do the same, feeling I was blending in.

One night, my father came home drunk, saw me in makeup, and exploded: “You’re going down the wrong path!” His fist landed on my face, blurring my vision, and he tried to cut my waist-length hair. My mother stopped him, but my decision was made—I had to leave.

I moved in with a Taiwanese woman from my language school who worked nights in Ginza. After paying rent, I had almost nothing left, surviving on 30-yen curry or the cheapest instant noodles.

One day, my gentle homeroom teacher invited several students to her home in Yokohama. Her husband, a senior executive, lived with her in a high-rise near the station. That night, we ate sushi and watched summer fireworks burst in the sky so close it felt like we could touch them. I realized that though we are all human, my parents and this couple lived in completely different worlds.

I vowed never to live in the dust again. On my days off, I went to the bookstore to read the latest test prep books. I couldn’t afford them, so I copied them standing for four hours. Weeks later, the shop owner stopped me—not to scold me, but to hand me the book I always read: “It’s paid for. Take it home and study. Keep going.” Tears streamed down my face as I repeated “Thank you.”

A year after arriving, I was accepted to Waseda University. My parents urged me to choose a national university to save money, but my mind was set—my life would bloom like fireworks. I would study with the best, and pay my own way.

While waiting to go to Japan for university, I temporarily enrolled in a second-rate college in my hometown. I grew out my hair and walked proudly through the campus. Not long after the semester began, the vice class monitor started pursuing me—playing guitar and bringing flowers. Though he looked decent, he constantly talked about politics. I found him boring and shallow.

He rented a place with two classmates. I often hung out with them. One snowy night, I suddenly had the idea to visit a graveyard. So the four of us walked dozens of miles through a snowstorm in the middle of the night.

One of the boys named DJ, was tall with a comic-book face. He was top of the class when we entered school, but withdrawn and quiet. We gradually grew closer and eventually became a couple. We skipped class to go to amusement parks, internet cafés, and nightclubs. We’d blow through our monthly allowance in a week, surviving the rest of the time on porridge and chicken bones.

Still, we were happy. We’d play water fights across campus with buckets and basins. On sunny afternoons, while everyone else was in class, I’d sit in the light-filled corridor blowing soap bubbles, and DJ would aim his toy water gun to burst them one by one.

He liked touching my cool skin under the moonlight. I liked his face—it was so handsome, it didn’t feel real. Everything happened naturally. And then I got pregnant.

At the time, I had also written a script for the school drama troupe. But the night before the performance, I had the abortion. I never saw my work or that child.

He was devastated. His family found out and came to talk with me, suggesting we break up. He just sat there in silence. That’s when I realizedーDJ was still just a boy who hadn’t yet grown up.

Later, I met a senior from the art department and a student from the drama academy. They cooked for me, wrote letters, gave me flowers. But I could never forget DJ. Even now, I sometimes still think of that unreal, beautiful face.

用来挥霍的青春

为了等去日本留学，我暂时就读本市一所二流大学，留起长发，高傲地穿行于校园。开学不久，副班长开始追我，弹吉他送花，虽然长得不错，却整天谈入党、仕途，我觉得他庸俗可笑。他和另外两个男生在校外租房，我常去找他们玩。有次大雪纷飞，我突发奇想半夜拉着他们去坟地，顶着风雪走了几十里。

其中一个男生叫大吉，一米八几，长着一张漫画脸，入学时成绩第一，却孤僻寡言。我和他越走越近，最终在一起了。我们翘课去游乐场、网吧、夜店，生活费一周花光，剩下的日子就靠喝粥啃鸡骨头。可我们乐在其中，用水桶和脸盆打水仗，满校园狂。阳光洒进教学楼的午后，我吹肥皂泡，他用小水枪一一击破。

他喜欢在月光下触碰我冰凉的身体，我喜欢他帅得不真实的脸。一切自然而然地发生，后来我怀孕了。

我为话剧团写了剧本，却在公演前夕做了手术，孩子和作品都未能见到。他很受打击，他家人也找我谈话，劝我分手。他低着头沉默不语，我终于明白，大吉只是个还没长大的孩子。

后来我遇见了美术系的学长和戏剧学院的小生，他们给我做饭，写信送花和戒指，但我始终忘不了大吉，和他那张不真实的脸。

無駄にしてこそ青春

日本留学を待つ間、地元の二流大学に通っていた。髪を伸ばし、誇らしげにキャンパスを歩いていた。間もなく副クラス長が私を追い始め、ギターを弾いて花を贈ってきた。見た目は悪くなかったけれど、入党や出世の話ばかりで、私は彼をつまらなく感じた。

彼は他のクラスメート2人と校外に部屋を借りており、私はよくそこに遊びに行った。ある大雪の夜、ふと墓地に行きたくなり、皆で吹雪の中を何十キロも歩いた。

その中の一人、大吉は背が高く漫画のような顔立ちで、入学時の成績はトップだったが、人付き合いが苦手だった。私たちは次第に惹かれ合い、恋人になった。授業をサボって遊園地やナイトクラブへ行き、生活費は一週間で使い果たし、残りは粥と鶏の骨で食いつないだ。でも、楽しかった。水桶や洗面器で水遊びをして校内を走り回り、午後の陽だまりで私はシャボン玉を吹き、大吉が水鉄砲で撃っていた。

彼は月明かりの下、私の冷たい体に触れるのが好きで、私は彼の夢のように整った顔に惹かれていた。自然とそうなって、私は妊娠した。

当時、劇団の脚本も書いていたが、公演前日に手術を受け、子供も作品も見られなかった。彼は深く傷つき、家族からも別れを勧められた。彼は黙ってうつむいていた。その時気づいた、大吉はまだ大人になりきれていなかったのだ。

I was born into an ordinary working-class family in China. Since I was a child, I loved dancing—often mimicking the moves I saw on TV. But my parents were very traditional. Not only did they refuse to let me learn dance, they even turned down a recommendation from the national gymnastics team. To make me focus on studying, they cut my hair boyishly short from elementary school. Over time, I became deeply insecure and disillusioned with life.

I had no interest in studying but was forced to do it from morning till night. After night classes, I used to walk home with a classmate, and we would talk about how the world might end. I told her with certainty: "I'll never live past 35. If I do, I’ll kill myself on my 35th birthday."

In middle school, my father was laid off. The three of us squeezed into a tiny room with only one bed. He tried to start small businesses, but all failed. Eventually, he went to Japan as a laborer through a connection. Honestly, I was relieved—there was more space at home, and no more beatings.

But life in Japan was harsh. Not knowing Japanese, he could only do the hardest labor. He lived with five or six others in a six-square-meter room, cockroaches crawling on the ceiling at night. One day, exhausted, he drove a 7-inch nail into his hand at a construction site. With no money for a doctor, he lay in bed with a fever for a week. He wrote all this in a letter to my mom—she read it while crying.

I got into a top high school, and my mom believed I could make it to university, so she too went to Japan. I was left bouncing between my grandparents’ homes. I became more rebellious—wearing eccentric clothes, smoking, getting into fights. One day, after a female teacher kicked me out of class, my homeroom teacher took me to the office. Instead of scolding me, he gently asked if something was bothering me. That question broke me. All my long-held frustration burst out in tears.

He handed me tissues and said I looked like Lin Daiyu when I cried. He started walking me home, first holding my hand, then hugging me—each time longer. One day, his lips moved from my forehead downward, and I felt something hard press against me. My face was wet again—this time, with his tears. He pushed me away and told me to go home.

He was 24, just out of college, and already married. I don’t know if his tears were for his wife, or for the girl whose life he didn’t want to ruin.

The rebellion and our forbidden relationship made my grades plummet, and I failed to get into my dream university. I didn’t want to give up, so I decided to study in Japan. It took a year of waiting due to different school calendars and complicated paperwork. To kill time, I enrolled in a second-rate university. That year, I completely let myself go—that, though, is another story.

我出生在中国一个再普通不过的工人家庭。从小喜欢跳舞，常常模仿电视里的舞姿。但我的父母非常传统，不仅没有让我学舞蹈，连国家体操队的选拔推荐也一口回绝。为了让我专心读书，从小学开始就把我的头发剪得像男孩子一样短。我渐渐变得自卑、厌世，对学习毫无兴趣，却被逼着从早学到晚。

每次晚自习回家，我都会和同路的女生讨论世界会以怎样的方式毁灭。我坚定地对她说，我一定活不过35岁，如果活到那一天，我会自杀。

中学时，父亲下岗了。我们一家三口挤在一间只有一张床的小房里。他试着做些小生意，却总是赔钱。后来，经人介绍去日本打工。说实话，当时我真的松了口气——家里终于不再那么拥挤，也没有人再对我拳打脚踢了。

但父亲在日本的生活并不好。因为不会日语，只能做最苦最累的体力活。五六个人挤在六平米的房间，夜里醒来，天花板爬满蟑螂。有一天他因太疲惫，在工地把七寸长的铁钉钉进了手背。没钱看病，他躺在床上高烧了一周。他把这一切写在给母亲的信里，母亲一边看一边流泪。

高中我考上了市重点，母亲觉得我能考上重点大学，于是也去了日本。从那以后，我在爷爷奶奶和姥姥姥爷家之间来回辗转。性格变得越来越叛逆，穿着另类，抽烟打架。一次被一位女老师赶出教室，班主任把我带到办公室，没有批评我，反而温柔地问我是不是有什么心事。我一下子破防了，委屈伴着眼泪喷涌而出。

他递给我纸巾，说我哭得像林黛玉。后来他经常送我回家，分别时会牵手，之后变成拥抱，再后来他的嘴唇慢慢从额头移下，我感觉到他身体某个部位在顶着我。我的脸湿了，这次是他的泪。他推开我，让我回家。

那年他24岁，刚大学毕业，已婚。我不知道他哭是因为对不起新婚的妻子，还是怕毁了我还未开始的人生。

高中的叛逆和这段禁忌的感情，让我成绩一落千丈，没考上理想大学。我不想就这样认命，决定去日本留学。手续繁杂，开学时间也不同，要等一年。为了打发时间，我上了个二流大学。那一年，我彻底放飞了自己——不过，那是另一个故事了。

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私は中国のごく普通の労働者家庭に生まれました。小さい頃からダンスが大好きで、テレビの振付を真似してよく踊っていました。でも両親はとても保守的で、私にダンスを習わせるどころか、国家体操隊からの推薦すら断ってしまいました。勉強に集中させたい一心で、小学校の頃から男の子のように短く髪を切られ、私は次第に自信を失い、人生そのものに嫌気がさすようになりました。

勉強には全く興味が持てず、朝から晩まで強制される毎日。夜の自習が終わって帰る道すがら、同級生の女の子と「世界がどうやって滅びるか」ばかり話していたものです。私はいつも「私は絶対に35歳まで生きられない。もし生き延びても、35歳の誕生日に自殺する」と真顔で言っていました。

中学の頃、父が失業し、家族3人で一つのベッドしかない部屋に押し込まれる生活が始まりました。父は小さな商売をいくつか試しましたが、全部失敗。最終的に人づてで日本に出稼ぎに行くことになりました。正直、当時の私は少しほっとしていました。家が広くなり、暴力もなくなったからです。

でも、父の日本での生活は過酷でした。日本語ができず、きつくて汚い肉体労働しかなく、6平米の部屋に5〜6人で暮らし、天井を這うゴキブリに囲まれて眠る日々。ある日、睡眠不足のまま工事現場で7寸の釘を手に打ち込んでしまい、病院にも行けず高熱で1週間寝込みました。父はその体験を母への手紙に綴り、母はそれを読みながら泣いていました。

高校では市の重点校に合格し、母は「きっと大学にも受かる」と思って日本へ渡りました。私は祖父母の家を転々としながら、ますます反抗的になり、奇抜な服を着て、煙草を吸い、喧嘩ばかりしていました。ある日、授業中に女性の先生に追い出され、担任に職員室へ連れて行かれました。でも彼は叱ることもなく、優しく「何か悩みがあるのか」と声をかけてくれました。私はその瞬間、心の堤防が崩れ、抑えていた感情が涙と一緒にあふれ出しました。

彼は私に「泣いている姿が林黛玉みたいだね」と言ってティッシュを渡してくれました。それから彼はよく家まで送ってくれるようになり、最初は手をつなぎ、次第に抱きしめるようになりました。そしてある日、額にキスをし、唇がだんだん下に移動してきて、私は彼の身体の一部が硬くなっているのを感じました。私の顔はまた濡れていました——今度は彼の涙で。彼は私を押しやり、「帰りなさい」と言いました。

彼は当時24歳で大学を出たばかり、すでに結婚もしていました。その涙は新婚の妻への罪悪感か、それとも私の人生を壊したくなかったからなのか、今でもわかりません。

White Hair and Death

I’ve always looked about ten years younger than my actual age. Despite all that I’ve been through, I’ve remained cheerful and full of life. My youthful body and mindset made me almost forget—I, too, am just an ordinary person who will grow old.

Until one month ago, when I found my first white hair on the left side of my forehead.

For someone my age—or even younger—it’s nothing unusual. Yet, in that moment, it felt like a harsh slap in the face. Aging had arrived right on time. No matter how special you think you are, no matter how hard you try, what is meant to come will always come.

I told myself to accept reality, to learn how to age with grace. Still, silent tears streamed down my face.

A week later, I took two weeks off to visit my family in China. Two days before my flight, my father texted to tell me that my grandfather didn’t have much time left. I had to work myself to the bone to take this leave, so I didn’t change my flight and stuck to the original plan.

The day before I returned home, my grandfather passed away.

He was the elder I respected most. In his younger days, he was a leader at his company. He loved giving lectures and was deeply emotional—sometimes tearing up mid-sentence while speaking. I didn’t feel overwhelming grief when I heard the news. In a way, I was relieved for him. In recent years, he’d been almost completely deaf, unable to connect with the outside world, trapped in his own body.

Even after hearing of his death, I went on working. I even gave a cheerful and humorous presentation.

By the time I arrived in China, he had already been cremated. All I saw was his urn. After placing the urn in its resting place and burning spirit money, I went on a domestic trip with my two children and ex-husband.

I was surprised by how detached I seemed—how lighthearted I could be.

After a week of travel, I returned to Japan. That’s when the emptiness hit me.

I finally understood what his death meant to me. He had taken a part of my life with him—the part we shared. Now, those memories live only in my mind. But can memory truly be trusted?

They feel so fragile, so weightless—like a gust of wind could scatter them at any moment.

A person’s memory is not reality. The loss of those we love is the gradual fading of our own existence.

And now, when I look back at that one white hair, I see it as the first key that unlocked the door to death in this lifetime— and the moment I began documenting the real me.

白发与死亡

我看起来比实际年龄年轻十岁左右。尽管经历了许多，我一直保持着乐观与活力。年轻的身体和心态几乎让我忘了，我也不过是一个会老去的普通人。直到一个月前，我在左侧额头发现了第一根白发。

对于我这个年龄，甚至更年轻的人来说，这原本是再自然不过的事情。但那一刻，我仿佛被命运狠狠扇了一耳光。衰老如约而至，无论你多么特别、多么努力，该来的终究还是来了。

我告诉自己要接受现实，学习优雅地老去。然而泪水，却悄然滑过脸颊。

一周后，我请了两周假回中国探亲。就在临行前两天，爸爸发来消息说，爷爷快不行了。为了请这两周的假，我拼尽全力赶工到出发当天，没有更改机票，按原计划启程。

就在我回国前一天，爷爷走了。

爷爷是我最敬重的长辈。他以前在公司当领导，喜欢给人讲课，还特别容易动感情，有时讲着讲着自己就哭了。爷爷的离世，我并没有太过悲伤，因为我觉得他终于得到了释放。这些年，他几乎全聋，无法与人沟通，仿佛被困在自己的身体里。

得知爷爷去世后，我照常继续工作，甚至还带着笑意讲了一场幽默风趣的讲座。

回国时，爷爷已火化。我只见到了他的骨灰盒。安置好骨灰盒、烧了纸后，我便带着两个孩子和前夫一起出去旅游。原来我竟然可以如此冷静坦然，连我自己都觉得不可思议。

旅行一周回到日本，心里突然空落落的。直到那一刻，我才真正明白：爷爷的离世，对我而言，意味着什么。他带走了我生命中的一部分，那些属于我们之间的独特回忆。

现在，它们只存在于我的记忆里。而记忆，真的可靠吗？它们变得如此轻盈、孤单，仿佛一阵风就能将它们吹散。

一个人的记忆，是不真实的。亲人的离世，就是我们自身逐渐消失的过程。

回想起那根白发，它似乎是我通向死亡之门的第一把钥匙，也是我决定开始记录真实自己的起点。　

白髪と死

私は実年齢より10歳ほど若く見られます。いろいろなことを経験してきたけれど、ずっと楽観的でエネルギッシュに生きてきました。若々しい体と心を持っていることで、自分も老いる普通の人間だということを、どこかで忘れていたのかもしれません。

そんな私に、ひと月前、左のおでこに初めての白髪が現れました。

私の年齢や、もっと若い人たちにとっても白髪は特別なことではありません。でもその瞬間、私はまるで現実に頬を打たれたような衝撃を受けました。

老いは誰にでも平等に訪れます。どんなに特別であろうと、どれだけ努力しようと、避けられないものはやってくるのです。

現実を受け入れようと、私は「優雅に老いる」ことを学ぼうと自分に言い聞かせました。でも、頬には静かに涙が流れていました。

その一週間後、2週間の休みを取って中国へ帰省することにしました。出発の2日前、父から「おじいちゃんの容態が良くない」と連絡が入りました。休みを取るために、私は出発日まで死にものぐるいで働いていたため、予定通りのフライトを変えることはしませんでした。

出発の前日、おじいちゃんは亡くなりました。

私にとって祖父は、最も尊敬する家族でした。若い頃は会社でリーダーとして働き、人に教えるのが好きで、感情豊かで、話しながら自分で泣いてしまうこともよくありました。

けれど祖父が亡くなったとき、私は不思議とあまり悲しくありませんでした。むしろ「やっと解放されたのだ」と思いました。ここ数年、祖父はほとんど耳が聞こえず、外の世界との繋がりを失い、まるで自分の体に閉じ込められているようでした。

その知らせを受けた後も私は仕事を続け、ユーモアを交えた講演まで行いました。

中国に着いたときには祖父はすでに火葬されていて、私が見たのは骨壷だけでした。納骨を終え、紙を燃やして祖父を見送り、私は元夫と子どもたちを連れて国内旅行に出かけました。

そんな自分の冷静さに、自分でも驚きました。

日本に戻ってきたとき、心にぽっかりと穴が空いているのを感じました。ようやく気づいたのです。祖父の死は、私の人生の一部が失われたということなのだと。

祖父と共有していたその部分は、もうこの世に存在しません。今は私の記憶の中にしか残っていない。その記憶は、果たして本当に確かなものなのでしょうか。

記憶とは、風に吹かれたら飛んでいってしまいそうな、儚く頼りないものです。

人の記憶は、現実ではありません。親しい人の死は、私たち自身の存在が少しずつ消えていく過程なのかもしれません。

我会把所有那些不为人知的经历与思绪，静静写在这里。 若你愿驻足聆听，或许能在字里行间遇见那个久违的自己。 毕竟，我们都是赤裸灵魂中起舞的精灵。

誰にも知られていない私の体験や想いたちを、 そっとここに書き留めていきます。 もしあなたが立ち止まり、耳を傾けてくれるなら、 行間に、久しく忘れていたあなた自身を見つけられるかもしれません。 だって私たちは皆、裸の魂で舞う精霊なのだから。