A voice that only I can hear
I have a studio located in Tokyo as my production base, but I also have another studio that is not in Tokyo. It's surrounded by greenery and mountains, with clear air and the chirping of birds that wakes me up. It's a studio that is quite unlike me. I had been vaguely searching for such a place even before the pandemic began, and since I couldn't easily go abroad anymore, I decided to create another creative space. Some parts of this text are written there.
I completely renovated a rundown mountain hut from the floor to everything else. Creating a studio is truly enjoyable. Thanks to that, I've become familiar with different materials, from wood to walls. My recent concern is whether I'll get stung by wasps while wearing dark clothes around the end of spring. It seems dragonflies are their natural enemies. I haven't finished moving my instruments yet, but I'm looking forward to the encounter with new sounds in this place. I hope to unveil it someday.
As I descended from the studio into the city, I saw children playing soccer in the spacious playgrounds of parks and schools. Memories from the past suddenly resurfaced within me.
In the same class in elementary and middle school, there was a boy who never spoke at school.
Around the newly built elementary school, there were rows of new houses for sale, and there were many transfer students, including me. He transferred a little later than me, and he had two cute younger brothers. Since his transfer, he never spoke a single word to his classmates or teachers, whether it was during class or break time. The cruelty of young hearts made me feel like he was gradually being looked at with curiosity for not speaking at school.
Perhaps soccer, our common interest, was the catalyst. I somehow got along well with him. And during the times when we played together, he would speak, despite never uttering a word at school. We played soccer towards our self-made goal in the attic, and when a professional soccer player came to a nearby shopping center, we rode our bikes and went to watch a Kashiwa Reysol game with his father, who was a soccer coach.
However, the next day when I went to school, his mouth was closed again. I don't think I ever heard his voice at school.
After getting to know him in the same class, we ended up being in the same class the following year as well. As the only one who could communicate with him, I became useful to the teachers as his "interpreter." Although there was not much need for my classmates to talk to him, it was my role to convey his intentions to the teachers during class.
But as time passed, I began to feel various gazes.
I started thinking about what I wanted to do.
When I entered middle school, while my friends around me became more and more free, there were moments when I felt pressure and discomfort towards what should not have been a big deal, my mission. At the same time, I even felt that my presence was somehow reassuring and immobilizing him. I had even told the teacher that it might be better for me not to be around him. Although there was no one else he could talk to besides me, at some point, I started thinking that way. I don't know the exact reason for the final turning point, but I felt a tremendous sense of guilt when we were separated in the last class reshuffle. With such a faint conflict in my heart, he and I went to different high schools. We didn't even have each other's home phone numbers, so we lost contact.
Looking back now, it's a truly mysterious story. Why didn't he speak to anyone other than me? Why didn't he even talk to me at school?
When we were together, he often laughed like a fairy. Was he trying to avoid existing in the closed world of school, or was he struggling to exist? Did he, who I thought I was saving, actually provide comfort to me? The lingering sense of loneliness, which should have faded away with time, still resurfaces occasionally, brought about by my own immaturity back then.
The elementary school had colorful markings on the asphalt. I envied him, who lived nearby.
I wonder how he's living now. What kind of life has he had since then? As I became increasingly absorbed in soccer, music, and pursuing what I wanted to see, his presence disappeared from my memories. The encounter that felt so natural and the quiet parting left no vivid memories behind, only a fleeting time of laughter and a slight sense of regret. Did my wish for him to be able to be alone end up making him lonely?
Does his clear voice, known only to me, reach someone now? The cherry blossoms, out of season, are still dancing. Amidst the flowing greenery and the scenery carried by the wind, I suddenly remembered something that was tucked away in a corner.
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