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.
The Other Me
If my reincarnated self came across my collection of notebooks, would she recognize herself in me?
A Friend of November?
I’ve never been a friend of November, but lately I’ve been trying to learn to appreciate it more. So I wrote two sentences in my black-paged, pocket-sized notebook: “The damp November wind creeps along the street” and “The damp November evening was full of silence.” Do I appreciate this gray month more now? I’m not quite sure.
The Wall
I always believed that my imagination had no limits, until one day I came upon a wall that I haven’t been able to cross to this day. I can’t get over it or under it. It stretches as far as the eye can see in both directions, and there’s no slipping through it either.
The Woman Who Waited Forty Winters
It was an ordinary winter day, and I was browsing through books in a quiet bookstore. Whenever I have a bit of time, I like to come here. There were only a handful of customers, one of them an elegantly dressed older woman with an open, friendly face that seemed to radiate hope.
I couldn’t help myself; I complimented her on how lovely she looked. She clasped her hands in front of her, and her face lit up. Then she said, “The world covered my husband with invisibility, and he vanished. It’s been over forty years. I come here every day in the hopes of seeing him one last time. This is where we met. Sometimes I think I can still hear his distant voice calling my name.”
We decided to sit down in the bookstore’s little café, and there she told me all about her husband.
The Postcard
It was a Saturday morning when I received a postcard. I picked it up and read: “It's like being perpetually trapped in a burning car with doors that won't open.” There was no mention of the sender's identity. Moved by the mysterious card, I decided to attach it to my fridge door.
A World Apart
In a park I often frequented, a woman suddenly materialized in front of me. I knew I should have been scared, but, surprisingly, I was more intrigued than frightened by what I witnessed. I still remember what she said: “I am aware that I exist in a world separate from everyone else, and that is why we never cross paths, except this time.” We exchanged warm farewells as she slowly faded away.
Almost Nonexistent
For a long time, I have tried to anchor myself to this world through these words, yet my existence remains fragile, faded, almost nonexistent.
Realm of the Gods
In autumn, it’s hard not to believe in God; it feels as if we’re stepping into the realm of the gods. The richness of life is in the air, and the world blazes in shades of gold.
The Absence Within
The man took a swig of his coffee and continued, ‘She was always trying to reach for something inside herself that simply wasn’t there.’ Then he broke down in tears; he had lost his wife a few years earlier.
The Waiting Room
I was sitting in the doctor’s waiting room, leafing through magazines, when one of the doors opened and a woman holding back tears walked out. She sat down and said, ‘The doctor told me that I’m too fragile for the rhythm of this world. Apparently, my soul beats too slowly. He said it would be good for me to find a dwelling more suited to my soul. Do I really have to move back to my parents in the mountains? What am I supposed to do now?’ I didn’t know what to say; I just held her hand.
Traces of Me
Like the spirit of my home, my writings are a kind of whisper from the person I once was.
Lonely Eyes
The loneliness in her eyes made her seem delicate. I wanted to protect her from the harshness of the world, yet I could still sense the life-hungry heart pulsating inside her.
Fragile Presence
The woman was so faded that I could hardly make out even her trembling outlines. I wanted to ask if it hurt.
Mandarins for a Stranger
Today, as I sat on the metro, I was overcome by such a strange feeling that I can hardly describe it. Perhaps it was the fatigue after a day at work and the subsequent trip to the store that exhausted me. Across from me sat a woman with pale skin, whose empty soul seemed to waft from her uncontrollably. I slipped two mandarins out of my bag and handed them to her. The woman looked at me with slight surprise, but still nodded in thanks, before the evening twilight swallowed her at the next stop.
The Man on the Bench
On one ordinary afternoon, I saw the man wearing a hat sitting on a bench, his eyes moist with sadness. He clutched his head with both hands, slowly shaking it, and said, ‘Oh, if only I could see the world with fresh eyes one more time before it's my time to go.’
Birds
I was taking a stroll when I saw a man wearing a hat, gazing at the sky. There was something about the way he looked up that made me stop and look at the sky with him. The man said, without ever turning to me, ‘Where did all the birds go?
The Spirit of My Soul
There are moments when only nature’s abundant radiance can embody the spirit of my soul.
Relentless Mind
I think without end; not a single moment passes without thought. It is the first thing I do upon waking and the last before falling asleep. I think when I go for walks, I think while cooking, I think while cleaning, and I think while showering. I’m an obsessive thinker, one might say. If only I could switch off my mind, even for just a minute, and feel the freedom it might offer.
The Golden Sun
Winter has barely begun, yet I find myself eagerly awaiting the golden warmth of the sun.
The Season of Dreams
I call it the season of dreams, for everything around me has fallen into a deep sleep.
The Cat in the Hostel
I was sitting on the train, on my way home from work, when a spectacled woman suddenly asked me, ‘Do you remember the cat in the hostel? I think Cuddles was her name.’ I had never seen her before, but she was looking at me so intently, waiting for my reply, that I said, trying to play along without offending her, that I had never met a cat as good as Cuddles.
The Plane Ticket
Since the weather was beautiful, I decided to enjoy my lunch at a nearby park. As I sipped my hot tea and took small bites of my sandwich, a kind-looking woman sat down beside me. We exchanged smiles and sat together in silence. Then she slipped a plane ticket from her bag, handed it to me, and said, ‘Please be a dear and accept my little gift. In my dreams, I travel to such magnificent, faraway places that I no longer need to go anywhere.’
Little Red Fox
As I was walking in the forest, I heard a sudden rustle, and in front of me stood a little fox who said, ‘I'm a little red fox!’ and scuttled away. So startled was I that I bowed and smiled at the fox, only later realising that it had spoken in human language.
Misplaced thoughts
I was coming out of the grocery store when I saw a middle-aged man on his knees searching for something, so I asked if there was anything I could do. He said, ‘Oh, how sweet of you. It seems I’ve misplaced my thoughts and can’t find them anywhere!’
Endless November
He said that we are now living in November. I was puzzled and said, ‘But we’ve already been living in November for quite some time.’
He paused and looked at me, not accusingly, not pityingly, but in the way one simply looks at another person. He laid his hand on my shoulder (his touch was far lighter than I could have imagined) and said, ‘A gaze full of longing lingers in endless November.’
And then he left, leaving behind only the dampness of November.
The Hands I See
When I look at my hands, I ask myself: do I really exist? I see my hands, but do others see them too? And if they do, why do they look right through me?
The Rapture of Life
I drown in life’s rapture, pressing its sparkling magic into me until it spills from my pores like a rain of stars.
Echoes of Me
They walk past me, speak past me, breathe past me, as if I were merely a memory, unaware that I have disappeared.
Sun-ripened Peach
I am a sun-ripened peach, rich and juicy, so ripe that my boundless lust for life floods over the creature consuming me.
Yearning for Snow
I yearn for snow, for the boundless quiet it offers, for its scent. When will you enfold me like a fevered, passionate lover, my friend?
The Hands
Oh, if only there weren’t those hands. They are everywhere! When I’m awake, when I close my eyes, even in my dreams. Reaching for me, exuding cold.
Oh, if only there weren’t those hands!
Gallery Encounters
An old man sat beside me, gazing at the painting of infinity. Though we did not know each other and had arrived at our own times, following our own paths, I was overtaken by the feeling that we had come together to admire the work. It always took my breath away with its overflowing beauty. Around us, there was the soft rustle of coats, the clatter of footsteps, and occasional coughs as visitors moved from one piece to another; yet we were so moved that we existed in our own separate world.
We have met here before, always sitting side by side in front of this same painting. Today, I stepped into the gallery bathed in amber light, the autumn storm still raging inside me. His presence always felt like a warm embrace.
I do not know what made me lay my hand on his soft, wrinkled hand. To my surprise, the man did not recoil; I saw tears kissing his life-hungry face.
The Sea Slime
The woman said, 'I am a sinking sea slime; slimy, cold, leathery, shapeless. I live in the mud at the bottom of the sea, listening to its roar. Is this what the sound of the Earth is like? She takes care of me, guides me to where there is food, keeps dangers away. She comforts me with his ever-present being. I see nothing, for I have no eyes. I hear only the roar, and I feel the eternal current of life on my skin; I am programmed to tremble and pulse in its rhythm.'
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