I am writing about the division of truth. If you start reading this article suddenly, you may not understand the meaning, so please start reading from the previous article.
My boss always sits diagonally across from me in the conference room. Or, to be precise, anyone who has an opinion that doesn't suit my boss sits diagonally across from me. Because they're not directly in front of me, their face is always in the corner of my vision. Whenever I make a comment, they squeeze in a little cough to catch the gap, and instead of picking up on what I've just said, they wait a moment and then simply say, "That's one way of thinking about it."
His voice was calm, and he even had a smile on his face. But there was a hint of firmness, like a click, in the "yes" part. I was probably the only one who noticed.
One day, he pointed out a typo in a document. It wasn't a big deal, but he stood behind me, peered over my shoulder, and circled it in red pen.
The smell of ink blends with the refined scent of fabric softener that has soaked into the shirt. It doesn't seem like the kind of scent you'd find at a drugstore. At the edge of my vision, a red circle slowly closes.
If you were to tell this to someone, they would probably just say, "What's so bad about that?" Whether it's a cough in a meeting or a circle drawn in red, there's no malice involved if you just state the facts.
But I can see it. They're trying to skillfully carve me away. Thinly and thinly, so that the person being carved away doesn't even notice.
My boss's superior (a pleasant, easy-going woman) started talking to me. I felt a slight sense of discomfort as we spoke. The discomfort came not from the content of her words, but from the warmth of her voice. Even though she was laughing, there was a temperature difference in the air, as if the laughter had cooled down a little before it reached me. The topic was just a casual work-related announcement. However, there was a pause after each word, and in those moments another conversation was building inside me.
--That boss must have been telling him something. I have no proof. I'm sure it's just that the way he pauses and moves his eyes is similar.
When she suddenly smiled and closed her eyes, I remembered the moment the circle in red pen closed. My boss must have succeeded in lowering my image without ever using any direct expression.
Well, I've given a lot of examples, but (just to reiterate) there are no bosses like this. For some people, there may be. But they don't have a clear appearance. Their face, name, and even what they're wearing that day are all vague. But still, they exist.
I think so because, ultimately, the reality we imagine isn't the real thing. This boss doesn't even have a name. He's just someone I've thought up.
But I know that feeling. A moment when we were tricked into a certain cleverness and unwittingly spoiled. This reality we perceive as not being a copy-and-paste of actual memories. It is a metaphor for emotions—feelings that are tangible, at that.
The fact that I can see it means that all of my experiences, assumptions, selfish speculations, and convenient interpretations are attached to it. It remains in my mind as a damaged experience or memory, but it is also possible that this is a distorted perspective.
I'm more interested in this distorted bulge behind the scenes than in the events reflected on the surface. Some might say it's in bad taste, but I can't help but find myself fascinated by it. The backside doesn't overlap with anyone else's precisely because it has no fixed shape. Looking into someone's back ultimately amounts to tracing your own outline. You end up tracing the holes, distorted gaps, and vague boundaries within yourself over and over again.
Every time I repeat this process, the world I see gradually shifts from the world other people see. At the moment when I realize that I am looking at the same scenery, but seeing something completely different, I feel like I am truly standing in reality.
I watched a documentary called "Satan is Waiting for You." It was very interesting. In the 1980s and 1990s, there was a big scandal in America. There were a series of accusations that people had been sacrificed in satanic rituals as children. They said that they had seen animals' limbs cut off in front of them and were forced to drink the blood of live human fetuses.
The news also said that "2 million children are being killed each year." The number was so large that it seemed unrealistic. However, in America at the time, there didn't seem to be much of a sense of doubt about the figure. Television and newspapers covered the story almost daily, with presenters speaking with serious expressions. The police and the FBI were also investigating.
The catalyst for this uproar was a book called "Michelle Remembers." The author, Michelle Smith, claims to have "recalled" her childhood memories during a hypnotic regressive state. She describes the extremely cruel and horrifying satanic rituals she underwent as a child.
One particularly striking part of the film is an audio recording of Michelle's therapy session with psychiatrist Lawrence Puzder.
"Can something this disjointed be called a memory?"
The voice stuck in my ears because it was the same as how I felt about reality. Michelle screamed as if she was being strangled by the devil. The psychiatrist was saying something in a muffled voice, but I couldn't hear it clearly.
As I watched it, I was reminded of the way my boss had cleared his throat. It was a completely unrelated story, but a thin thread was stretched between the image and my memory. The thread was soft, but unbreakable. Pull it even a little and the scenery on either side immediately became blurred.
Ah, that's right. My boss was purely imaginary. I prefer to create something that seems real rather than simply tracing reality. Because the reality inside me is incoherent. I think all of you readers probably prefer that approach too. Rather than recalling reality and carefully tracing it, I replace it, recreating the material in a way that leaves only sensation. I think that's a very human endeavor.
