Trip Notes: Gentle Moments

It was before I had begun my life as an artist.

After graduating from university, I joined a company in Tokyo straight out of school and began my life as a salaryman. Every day, I wore a suit and devoted myself to sales. I would wake up early each morning, be swayed and squeezed in the crush of Tokyo’s rush-hour trains, and often return home on the last train—despite not being paid overtime—due to the heavy workload. Given the nature of the industry, I sometimes had to provide customer support at any time, day or night, weekdays or weekends. Back then, I was living right on the edge of my limits.

So, around the Golden Week holidays, I added some paid leave and decided to take a solo trip for about one or two weeks to Australia, where I had studied abroad during my university days. I think I wanted to revisit the place filled with so many glittering memories, to seriously reaffirm the goodness of life and the meaning of living. When I contacted the host family who had kindly taken me in for a long stay back then, they warmly welcomed me back.

After several connecting flights, I finally arrived in a foreign city that somehow felt wider and clearer than before. Without making an appointment, I secretly visited the university I had once attended. The cafeteria where I used to have lunch, that one corner with its unique smell—like cheap perfume on musty fabric—the retro, oversized arcade machine endlessly repeating the same phrase. Everything was nostalgic, everything familiar. In them, I felt I could see the ghosts of my former self and friends from many different countries: laughing and chatting in broken English, playfully bickering until it turned into a mock quarrel, or wearing serious expressions as they tackled important exams. Those moments, those experiences, those meetings and partings would never happen again. Thinking about that undeniable fact, I felt something in my chest that was a mixture of gratitude and melancholy.

Some of my friends from that time had not yet returned to their home countries and were still studying there. When we unexpectedly met again in front of the library or on the campus lawn, we would raise our voices, widen our eyes, and share a rush of emotion. Some friends, despite how close we had once been, acted oddly cool upon seeing me again, which left me a little disappointed. On the other hand, there were friends who, despite having important assignments and exams, told me passionately, “Forget about that—right now, I just want to spend time with you!” Deep down, I thought I wanted to be that kind of person too, and at the same time, I almost felt like crying.

One thing led to another, and we decided to gather friends and acquaintances for an overnight trip to have a campfire in the middle of nature. In the end, more than ten of us came together. We drove for hours to a friend’s house deep in nature, with another friend at the wheel, driving aggressively. When “I Want It That Way” by the Backstreet Boys came on the car stereo—a song that had been popular years ago—he turned the volume knob sharply. A few people began singing along. Surrounded by the blast of sound, I stared out of the car window, burning the endless horizon into my memory. By the time we arrived, the warm orange sunset was bathing the world in light. The air was a little cold, but incredibly clear. After shopping for supplies, the sun finally dipped below the horizon, and the line between earth and sky began to blur. Just then, we all gathered around a roaring, blazing fire and began our meal.

One friend casually took a hit of marijuana, releasing the smoke gently into the calm night sky. He passed it to another, who did the same. When it came to me, I followed suit but ended up coughing violently. I wondered why they never seemed to cough. Before long, a light, floating intoxication set in, but at the same time, I realized I needed to pee. Yet the sensations I was feeling—so different from my everyday life—and the scene before me made me wonder: “Am I dreaming right now?” Caught between that doubt and my bladder, I thought about it for a while. Unable to reach a conclusion, I confessed my dilemma to my friends, who burst into laughter. “Don’t worry. This is reality,” they assured me again and again. Thanks to them, I finally set off, my steps feeling as though I was walking above the clouds, toward a toilet a short distance away. As I moved away from the fire, the air grew even colder, and I noticed the world had been dyed even deeper in darkness. It felt like another world, and my heart raced.

At the same time, my mind wandered: What truly defines the “real” world? Is it the ability to perceive it with our five senses? If so, what about dreams that come with all five senses? And what about those whose sight or hearing is impaired? Each question only led to more. Is this world we call “reality” truly the only one in the universe? Or are there countless worlds—parallel worlds—that we unknowingly move through all the time? I gazed up at the countless stars scattered across the night sky.

On my way back from relieving myself, I saw the group in the distance. One friend was holding a guitar and singing skillfully. Some friends were laughing loudly as they debated something. Others were speaking softly to each other with gentle smiles. Under the star-filled sky, their faces—illuminated by the firelight—looked lively, happy, and somehow warmly beautiful. The fresh scent of the forest, the smell of burning wood, the steady roar of the fire, and the occasional pop! or crack! of bursting embers all reached me where I stood. Alone in that moment, I took a slow, deep breath.

Life, reality, this thing we call existence—it can be brutally hard and painfully difficult at times. But life itself is not all bad. There are warm, gentle moments too. There will always be friends ready to welcome you with open arms. No one is ever truly alone. I took another slow breath. This moment, this experience, these meetings and partings—they will never come again. Thinking of that undeniable truth, I felt something in my chest that was a mix of gratitude and bittersweetness.