I'd like to talk to you.
I had some free time between work, so I went to Ginza to buy a ballpoint pen. It was midday on a cool, clear autumn day, and it had been a long time since I had been able to walk freely outside at this time of night. I was so happy to be able to stroll around the city at my own pace that I almost cried.
I don't really like to talk about myself. If I were to talk about how busy my life is, it could be synonymous with me talking about how "popular" I am, and if I were to talk about my work, it could be synonymous with me talking about "television and the entertainment industry." That just feels a bit weird.
Even if I wanted to talk about my friendships, it would be tantamount to talking about my "network," and even talking about my favorite brand of whiskey could be tantamount to talking about my "financial situation."
Once the events I want to talk about are put into words and extracted from my mouth, there can be discrepancies because how the other person interprets them is up to them, which is inevitable in any form of communication, but it's annoying to be annoyed when someone says something unnecessary, or to have to explain that it's not what I meant.
Even simply complaining that today was hard and I'm tired may come across as boastful to some people, and if the person is a man trying to please you, it will only unnecessarily stimulate their pride, leaving them with the choice between losing their confidence or being overly competitive, which will only be a hassle. In any case, I don't want to reveal myself. It's just troublesome.
I also know that my ethical views on confidentiality regarding self-disclosure are quite different from others'. Many people, even without any ill intentions, find themselves chattering away about other people's information in a sing-song manner. I don't know if it's a difference in the concept of respecting other people's privacy, or if the line is drawn loosely, but I can't help but see the difference in the sense that disregarding privacy, whether consciously or unconsciously, is a somewhat vulgar act, and the pathetic feeling of a person who feels superior because they "know." Since no one wants to dislike others too much, there's no need to spread themselves thin and collect grains of dislike.
I bought a ballpoint pen at my favorite stationery store, went straight to a coffee shop, and tried writing in my notebook with it. It felt so good to write with, I felt a surge of joy spread from my buttocks, and I nearly jumped up and down with joy. Then, I suddenly thought I wanted to talk about this incident, and then I suddenly realized something.
I feel like wanting to talk about such trivial events, and having someone with whom I can feel that way, is the very trust and comfort in human relationships, and I want to tell someone how much joy and sparkle the simple fact of having bought a ballpoint pen today has brought me, and the desire to tell them, and the feeling that this person will surely not tell anyone that I even bought a ballpoint pen - is this really what the world calls love? I want to ask Yamaguchi-san.
There are some people who would never want to tell you that they bought a ballpoint pen, so why do I feel the urge to share this joy with you? I don't want to talk about such trivial things with other people. I want to tell you. Does that mean I believe you? Does that mean I find peace? Or am I just expecting something selfish? If so, what does that mean? Could it be that I love you?
I felt as though I'd be swallowed up in an instant, so I shook my head as if to shake my brain. If I have a future husband, he'll probably be the one who keeps making me want to talk about things like ballpoint pens. Every year on our wedding anniversary, I'll probably end up receiving a strange thank you from him for always letting me talk about things like ballpoint pens.
After a while, I typed out a message saying that I'd been to Ginza, bought a ballpoint pen, and that it felt great to write with. This, the most obscure subject in the universe, elicited an immediate reply. Seeing it, I felt like crying, thinking, "I'm so glad I spoke to this person after all." And why did I want to write this for my serial in BRUTUS? Perhaps it's the trust, the comfort, and perhaps even a touch of love I feel for the people who look forward to my serial.
I turn 36 this month. I've always lived off small happiness, but I'm painfully aware that small misfortunes could kill me. Thank you for wishing me happy birthday. I don't know how long I'll be living the life known as Hikorohi. I could end it at any time. But I'm so happy to be turning another year older, and I truly consider myself fortunate.
Life ends. Whether I cry or laugh, it's bound to end. I'm sure I'll get more wrinkles, grow gray hair, lose my sense of time, become weaker on the feet, lose my eyesight, and before I know it, the days I spend in this body will be over. In the meantime, how many ballpoint pen-like events will I meet, and who will I be able to talk to about ballpoint pen-like events? It's a bit noisy to want to focus on the little happiness of these days, scooping them up as if to gather them up, and not knowing how much remains, but I think I'll have that whiskey tonight. I'd like to talk about that whiskey, too, if it were you, I thought. It was October.
This month's Hikorohi
