Faith

I envy those whose faith carries them forward—

holds their hand,

comforts them,

wipes their tear-stained faces,

and stays, even when others turn away. 

Who Am I Writing For?

When I write for myself, I write more authentically—the cocoon cracks, and my pure self emerges.

I, an Outsider

I have always been an outsider—at home, among friends, in the world, even in my own skin. Only my mind refuses to cast me out.

Memory of a Forgotten Entity

I have always thought of myself as the memory of some entity from a distant past, spoken into being by a dead language and lost beneath the dust of ages.

Lost Beyond

Do not vanish into the endless tunnels of your mind. You might never return. Or perhaps you might, but changed. I fear I would not be able to save you. I do not even dare to imagine what lies beyond. Does one become completely lost? Does one simply perish, or wander for the rest of their life like a ghost? It is better to stay clear.

Imprisoned Thoughts

I only want you to write. I want you to devote your life to writing. You have enlisted knights to guard the cave where you have imprisoned your thoughts. You believe you are protecting them from harm, but in truth they wither and perish, dying away in their cold, grey dungeon. Are you ready to bear the responsibility for their inevitable destruction?

What Is It You Fear?

You avoid me. You’d rather be stretching your limbs all day long than letting your fingers wander over me. You are afraid. Afraid for your life, and I don’t understand why. Who or what has wrapped you in this fog of fear? Do you think I would hurt you, or is it the other one you fear, the one who might harm you if you allowed yourself freedom? I swear it is not my intention to lead you to ruin; I was sent here to guide you to safety, away from the world of mist and fog. Please, I’m begging you. Take my hand, and let me help you.

It's Raining Dandelion Seeds

Outside, dandelion seeds are falling. The air is thick with their white fluff. An elegantly dressed old woman sits on a park bench, her eyes glistening with tears. She says, “Doesn’t it look so beautiful? How I wish I could capture it. It feels like a terrible waste to feel so lonely in the midst of all this beauty.”

The Lonely Terminal

I can’t get the long moving walkway at the airport out of my head, or the opera music playing on the big screen. It stirred something in me, a quiet longing for the unknown. I moved slowly, as if descending into the depths of the earth, feeling entirely alone, even though there were other people around. The space was gray, sterile, empty in a way that made the music echo. Ballerinas drifted across the screen, delicate and distant. If I were a film director, I would use that scene exactly as it was. The moment was so breathtakingly beautiful that I had to do everything I could to keep from bursting into tears in front of everyone.

The Sand and I

I don’t remember when the sand first appeared; suddenly, it was everywhere. As if the entire universe had, in a single moment, filled with that coarse substance. No matter how much I swept and polished, wiped the furniture, it always came back, spilling from the tiniest cracks. I soon realized I spent every waking hour trying to get rid of the sand.

When I woke in the morning, I always felt heavy, weighed down by the night I had spent buried beneath that mysterious, all-consuming sand. Then, one day, I felt the sand starting to cling to my skin. Before long, I had to scrub myself daily, each day more desperately than the last, as if the sand would not let me be.

I had to wipe the kitchen table regularly and place my dishes upside down; otherwise, I myself would fill with sand. Often, it felt as if I were nothing but a human filled with sand. It was in my brain, my intestines, my stomach, my heart, my ears, my eyes—everywhere. My speech sounded as if I were spitting tons of sand from my mouth. Mouth full of sand. Soul full of sand. Even my cells seemed shaped from sand. And I—the child of sand.

I have learned to accept the presence of sand. Whereas I once devoted my entire life to sweeping it away, now I let it be. I watch as it packs itself into every corner of my living space. It feels as if it has its own will; from moment to moment, its physical form shifts.

The sand has become a comforting companion on my lonely days. Sometimes, when I have completed all necessary tasks and left the radio transmitter and its possible signals behind, I speak to the sand as if it were a dear friend (now I believe it understands and cares about me). At first, I felt uneasy and deeply ashamed of how far I had fallen. But over time, I grew accustomed to the thought: I am alone here, so who would be watching my actions? I have come to feel that the sand also values it when I speak to it.

On rainy days, when I cannot do any outdoor work, I tell the sand about my life and myself, before all the people disappeared. I say to it: “The world did not vanish, nor did I, but everyone else disappeared. I still don’t understand what happened; where did everyone go, and why am I still here?” I tell it things I would never have shared with a single human soul.

The Signal Never Comes

I walk upon the earth as if drifting through an endless dream, my eyes scanning, searching, as if some hidden camera has been installed inside my skull. If only I could capture this moment exactly as I feel it, untouched by time or memory.
 But do the things I feel mean anything to anyone else?

What compels us humans to reveal our inner world to others? Are we seeking those who might feel some kind of soul-kinship with us?
“Don’t worry, you’re not alone. I’m here. I understand you, my distant friend.”
Is that what I want as well? And what are the odds that I would ever find that distant friend?

If I were to share everything I have written with the world, would I receive only laughter and ridicule? Or would there be, among the mockers, some small person who feels they have encountered their own soul?
“I don’t know you, but I understand you completely. Our souls pulse at the same frequency.”
Would that make me happy? Would it give me anything more than a smile, slowly crumbling in the silence?

To tell the truth, I am not even sure why I write my thoughts down. Is this some kind of substitute for the gnawing feeling of loneliness? Since I cannot speak to people, I speak to myself through these writings. I whisper to myself: I am here, and so are you.
We both exist; we simply do not know what we are—or how to be whatever it is we are.

In the end, surely all of us long to form a genuine connection with at least one other soul in this vast ocean. Otherwise, our lives have no meaning.

I turn on the radio transmitter and try to reach the outside world. Years have passed without any response. I hear nothing but static.

 

YOU ARE ALONE

SOMETIMES YOU WONDER IF YOU HAVE DIED WITHOUT REALIZING IT

BUT DEEP INSIDE, YOU KNOW THAT CANNOT BE TRUE

YOU ARE CERTAIN YOU ARE ALIVE

YOU CAN FEEL YOUR HEART BEATING

A Life Unseen

Is this the end?

It would indeed be a fitting end for someone who was not human. For someone who lived such an insignificant life that nothing of them remained after death. For someone who never learned to change the course of their existence in this endless universe. A trivial life, a trivial death. The world continues on its own, as if she never existed. Doesn’t that sound like exactly the right fate? (Doesn’t that sound perfectly fitting?) Doesn’t she deserve her miserable end?

Scent

"Your scent," the old person in the art gallery began, "what is it? I just can’t recall it."

What should I say? His old, water-blurred eyes look at me with expectant longing. I think for a moment before I answer:
"It’s the scent of new beginnings."

A glimmer of light sparks in the elderly person’s eyes, as if the cells of his body were slowly being replaced by new, life-filled ones.
"Yes, of course, that must be it."

And so we sit there, looking at the painting before us in the quiet, in a hall filled with the afternoon sun.

Ordinary Things

I’ve decided… what was it I’d decided? The thought slipped away.

 
I’ve decided to accept things as they are. I’m going to use ordinary soap, the kind without any special scent, and likewise ordinary shampoo, conditioner, lotion, and facial cleanser. I’m also going to eat ordinary food without complaining about it or growing tired of it.

A Strange Confession

It was my day off work, so I decided to go for a stroll. An older man wearing a scarf was walking behind me. All of a sudden, he quickened his pace, trying to catch up. Once he was within earshot, he began speaking rapidly, almost as if he were confessing a crime.

“You know, I’ve been thinking all morning,” he said, breathless, “that maybe I’m not supposed to be the person I’ve been pretending to be. I mean—what if everyone can see right through me? What if they already know?”

His words tumbled out in uneven fragments, as though he feared they might rot if left unsaid. I quickened my step, unsure whether he was talking to me, to himself, or to the empty street. But he matched my pace, almost eagerly, continuing his rapid monologue.

“I found an abandoned shopping list at the bottom of a grocery store cart,” he said. “It was yellow, wrinkled, written on graph paper. I felt a strange urge to rescue that lonely, somewhat worn-out scrap of paper, so I picked it up, smoothed it a little, and slipped it into the back pocket of my trousers, hidden from everyone’s sight. A wave of guilt washed over me, though I don’t really know why—after all, I wasn’t stealing anything. And yet, I felt like a thief. What would I have said if someone had asked, ‘Why did you take that piece of paper?’ How would I have justified these odd impulses of mine?”

He slipped the paper from his pocket and showed it to me.

CUCUMBER
TOMATOES
LETTUCE
BREAD T AND V
COLD CUTS
COOKING CREAM
DICED HAM
GRATED CHEESE
PORRIDGE
YOGURT
MILK
MEAT PIE
HAMBURGER
SAUSAGES

“Everything is written in capital letters. Bread T and V seems strangely mysterious,” he said. “What do you think it all means?”

I had no idea what the man was talking about, so I kept nodding as if I were listening, all the while trying to get away from him. He then bowed and thanked me, producing a paper napkin which he pressed into my hands.

“Please have this as a gift. I’ve been keeping this in my heart for a long time now. I feel so much lighter!” he said, and then he rushed off.

The Frosted Glass Doors

I went to the grocery store to get some milk. As I took a carton from the dairy shelf, I noticed a hunched elderly man staring at the glass doors of the dairy fridge. He said to me,
"I came here to do some shopping because my wife kept pestering me to go out and get some fresh air. I don’t know why my attention was drawn to the frosted glass doors. Frosted glass, frosty, frost. I’ve been turning that word over in my mind for a long while. Why do I think about such trivial things?"

The Potato Woman

I was eating at a small restaurant when a woman came in and asked about the potatoes. She said, "I only eat potatoes. Boiled, roasted, grilled, steamed. Diced, sliced, chunked, mashed. Peeled, unpeeled. Plain or seasoned. With butter and herbs. I love potatoes; their scent as they simmer in the pot, their ascetic, somewhat mysterious nature. Even the word 'potato' tastes good in my mouth. Earthy, not earthy. Potato. I love them!"

Who Took My Notebook?

Who took my notebook? The words inside feel foreign. Could it really have been me who wrote them?

Where Did All the Ink Go?

It is quite remarkable how this paper soaks up every drop of ink, greedily filling itself with words I desperately try to rid myself of, yet never becoming full.

A Winter Confidant

Today, the ground is covered in snow, the kind that’s wet and heavy, crunching pleasantly under one’s shoes. For some reason, I’ve always felt it carries a heavy heart. Even after sitting in the office for hours, I can still hear the echoes of that crunch, as if it’s quietly sharing its burdens with me. Don’t worry, I’m always here for you, my friend, I thought.