Trip Notes: Gentle Moments

This was back before I started working as an artist.

After graduating university, I joined a company in Tokyo and started my life as a salaryman. Wearing a suit every day, I threw myself into sales. Every morning I was crammed into Tokyo’s packed trains, and often returned home on the last train despite not being paid for overtime. Even on weekends or late at night, I had to provide customer support, regardless of the hour. At the time, many aspects of my life were at their absolute limit.

So I took some paid leave around Golden Week and decided on a solo trip to Australia, where I had studied during university. I think I wanted to revisit a place filled with sparkling memories, and to seriously reflect on the goodness of life and the meaning of being alive. When I contacted the host family who had welcomed me back then, they gladly offered to let me stay with them again.

After several connecting flights, I finally arrived. Somehow, the city felt wider and clearer than before. Without any prior notice, I quietly visited the university I had attended. The cafeteria where I often had lunch, that one corner that smelled like musty fabric mixed with cheap perfume, the retro arcade machine that endlessly repeated the same phrase. Everything felt nostalgic, everything felt familiar. I thought I saw traces of my old self there, along with the friends from different countries. We laughed together in broken English, got into lighthearted fights, and tackled important exams with serious faces. Those moments, those experiences, those meetings and farewells will never come again. That undeniable truth filled my heart with a mix of gratitude and melancholy.

Some of my old friends hadn’t returned to their home countries and were still studying there. When we unexpectedly reunited in front of the library or out in the field, we raised our voices, widened our eyes, and shared in the joy. Some friends, who once shared warmth and laughter, now seemed oddly cold—and that made me feel a little disappointed. But then there were friends who, even though they had assignments and exams to worry about, said, “Forget all that! Right now, I just want to spend time with you!” Hearing that made me want to become a person like that—and at the same time, brought me close to tears.

One thing led to another, and we gathered some friends to go on an overnight camping trip in the middle of nature. In the end, over ten people joined. We drove several hours to a friend’s house deep in the countryside, with someone driving recklessly the whole way. When the old Backstreet Boys song “I Want It That Way” played through the stereo, one friend cranked up the volume. Others began singing along. Wrapped in that loud music, I stared out the car window, burning the endless horizon into my memory. By the time we arrived, the world was bathed in the warm orange glow of sunset. The air was chilly but perfectly clear. After we finished shopping for supplies, the sun finally set, and the boundary between earth and sky began to disappear. Right around then, we all gathered around the roaring fire and began our meal.

One friend casually took a hit of ganja and returned the smoke to the quiet night sky. He passed it to another friend, who did the same. When it came to me, I tried too—but ended up coughing hard. I wondered why they weren’t coughing. Soon, a floaty sense of intoxication arrived, and at the same time, I realized I needed to pee. But everything felt so surreal, so far from daily life, that a strange doubt came to mind: “Am I dreaming right now?” Caught between that doubt and the urge to pee, I seriously struggled with it. Unable to decide, I confessed my dilemma to the others, and they all burst into laughter. They said, “Don’t worry. This is real,” again and again.

Finally, with footsteps that felt like walking on clouds, I began to head toward the toilet, a little ways off. As I moved away from the fire, I noticed the air had grown even colder—and the world had grown even darker. It felt like another world, and my heart began to race.

On my way back to the fire, I saw everyone from a distance. One friend held a guitar and sang beautifully. Others were loudly debating something with laughter. Still others were whispering softly with smiles. Under the sky full of scattered stars, lit by the fire, everyone’s faces looked full of life and joy. Somehow, they looked warm and beautifully radiant. The fresh scent of the forest, the smell of burning wood, the constant roar of the flames, and the occasional pops and crackles—they all reached me, even from afar. Alone, I took a long, slow breath.

There are times when life and living feel unbearably painful. But I don’t think life itself is a bad thing. There are warm, gentle moments. There are always friends who welcome you with open arms. No one is ever truly alone. I took another long, slow breath. This moment, this experience, these meetings and farewells will never come again. That undeniable truth filled my heart with a mix of gratitude and melancholy.