Japan

Despair. Mostly what I feel is despair. Not because I have been to a place as challenging and new as I have just seen, but because I never left my reality. Moving physically thousands of miles away for a specific period of time can never be an answer to the questions left behind. So I travel, I see, I hope that I learn and then I arrive back at where the problems stem from: myself. This concentric nature of life makes me wonder why there are oceans and mountains between us. Why there is cold and hot, wet and dry, light and dark, when ultimately it comes down to the self.

The self is what gets lost the easiest. People everywhere. People crammed into commuter trains, metros. People pushing each other at stations, at temples and shrines. There is too much eagerness or there is little awareness of the other. Everyone with their own agenda, they are pushing just to get through, just to discover that the self can never really be found. Instead of a dialogue they engage in worshiping Luck. Luck Be A Lady Tonight. Instead of words they use actions. Instead of a smile, they use a bow. They coexist with a force so mighty it can wipe them off the face of the planet. One single act of nature can send them back to ashes and dust. But the thrill of the ride, the thrill of life keeps them building higher and higher, living faster and faster, disregarding anything that may venture to alter their paths. Japan.

The Japan that showed herself was a land of much contrast. She was closing in on the one side and she was opening up on the other. There were fields of green much greener than I had ever seen. There were avenues of colours that kept me fascinated and amazed, mystified by the power light has. The concrete stole my heart and I vowed to once return and love Tokyo with all of me. The mountains with beautiful colours, the steaming villages smelling of sulphur: they were all entrapping. One tunnel after the other. One onsen after the other. One tree after the other. One house after the other. One person after the other. Who can keep count?

Every place told a story. Mostly it was of springtime, cherry blossoms or festivals with unimaginable colours. Every place had a smile and behind the smile, just barely visible, was the saddened look of hardship and misdemeanour. She had remembered a drawing in her father’s book of hell. It had three colours: red, black and brown. Then she saw the picture come alive. Hiroshima had three colours: red, black and brown. Time stood still at 8.15 and black rain began to wash down the memory of every perished soul. Torture is light compared to what was unleashed on that day…

The particulars of Japan you can read in a book. The feeling: you can never describe. If I had better tools, if I was able to tame these words more, then I could record all that I felt. I hope that what I had seen gets engraved and stored somewhere in an unexpected place and when I least feel the need to rely on it, it will rush to my aid.

It’s for times like these you learn to live again. It’s for friends like him you learn to love again.