A Letter to Intrepid Travelers

A Letter to You

     I love to travel to my other home country at least a half a month every year, the home country I don't live in. This other home country is not the place that is growing me straight and proud, that is providing me shelter, but instead the home country that gave birth to me, that nurtured me when I was a wee little child.

     Recently, one lone winter, I realized that I craved to return to the origin of my birth, just as every other year, – yet I didn't want to have "fun" there. At least, not "fun" in the traditional sense. Isn't that strange? So readers, in turn I ask you – what do you think about fun?

     I would assume, "fun" for you would be something akin to visiting that carnival your hometown hosts annually. Maybe it could be climbing the Eiffel tower with your lover, or touring the great Colosseum with your family. Perhaps "fun" would be skiing in the great white plains of Canada, or just sauntering along a famous neighborhood of ancient beauty in Kyoto while amiably chattering of how the times have passed?

     But no – that wasn't the feeling I desired; it wasn't the pleasure I had in mind. No, no, not at all. What I longed for was something much simpler, yet much deeper – something that resonated in your soul. What I longed for was strolling among the weed-covered streets of some unknown town, humming a Soviet-Era folk song under my breath while a murky river flowed besides me. What I longed for was to admire the guy in overalls changing the oil tank of a truck, admire that househusband who struggled to hang the large futon on the laundry pole, admire that woman who elegantly was repairing the window of her second-story home. 

     What I yearned for was to smell the fragrance of fresh wood an old man was hauling, to chatter with the policeman trying to locate the pebble in his shoe. What I wished for was to run towards the mirage of my now-deceased cat, and of my other cat I left back home – only to find, in foolish disappointment, that I was running toward a fire hydrant with peeling paint all along.

     What I wanted to do was to visit an old, nameless apartment, and then, in surprised delight, find out that one of those rooms provided a safe haven for the under-cared children of this world. To step into the room, and see a tangled mess of humans who are lying around in a small living room, animatedly speaking with one other. To glance at the old famicom in the middle of the room, wondering how that relic still functions in modern times. To gently tame a wild girl who hops into peoples' laps and starts slapping them with no hesitation.

     After a day's worth of adventure, perhaps I would stagger back to my rented high-rise apartment, drunk and dead, at 2:00 in the morning. Gazing out the tinted windows which offers me a splendid view of the neon Tokyo nightscape, I could feel like giving a passionate speech – on the pitfalls of American politics, or the hidden wonders of Russian culture. 

     Once that's all done and through, I'd think of jumping out the window, only to realize I can't locate the keys to disengage the lock mechanism – in dismay, I try to blast 80's Japanese music and attempt to get some sleep, before the neighbors start bellowing for me to shut the $%^&* up.

     And I would just wake up the next day, puking all the while, a terrible hangover plaguing me like the black death itself. In search for water, I would paradoxically ignore the bountiful selection of stores an uber-metropolis has to offer, instead opting to find a nice, quiet river 5 miles away in the semi-countryside. 

     Jumping straight into frigid waters, my last thought could be a wish to lose consciousness, and, let's see, float for 3 miles until I get washed up in some kind of holy shrine, complete with the statues of Buddha. There, I might buy a piece of paper which predicts my future, read the ominous tidings, and promptly roast it in sacred flames.

The tidings will be written as such: "She just wanted to be loved by you. Lost sheep, return to your herd."

After brooding around for an hour or so, eating junk food for no particular reason, the resident monk will chase me out, firmly pointing at a "no loitering sign" while complaining of the mess I made.

     Feeling lonely, I most definitely will shout out an impassionate speech of how my destined love, blinking a tad, mutters something about loving rainy days. She would be drying out the soaked wings on her angle-like physical – and then, emotions would rush upon me as the truth suddenly and finally dawns upon my soul. 

     You just wanted to be loved by me and only me – I'd find out in shock. And what's more, to accomplish this feat, you were always in solitude, in loneliness. In order to repent my sins of not acknowledging your sufferings, I would let you destroy my life – I would let you force me to forget where I am and who I am. I would forget so much that the only thing I can possibly remember is that I love you with all my heart.

     With those slim, graceful fingers, I'll protect you from the world while you weave a rope of affection, as fine and tangled as silk – the rope that'll choke me into restful sleep. As you choke me, I'd at last see the most exquisite, dazzling stars flying all around before my face – the most charming scenery in my whole life. Yet even if that scenery crumbles before my eyes, I won't bat an eyelid since you once murmured in my ear,

"Don't worry honey, I'll die with you."

     Ah, that dramatic phrase you uttered – it reminds me of the immense stakes I waged in exchange for you. I truly did lose everything for you – my fondest memories, the dreams I feverishly chased all my childhood, the eternal mystery of why I was born.

      And since I fell in love with you, everything went haywire – my life, my reputation, even my treasured watch I inherited from Grandpa. The only thing that stayed constant would be my absolute feeling of dedication for you.

Isn't that just a romantic, "fun" scene to imagine?

     But alas, the latter part of this rather disturbed rant is only my imagination. In reality, I'm just a single Japanese/American person who had an elliptic vision commanding her to write this story, precisely, at 3:00 in the morning. In reality, I'm just the gal who admires culture of America, Russia, and Japan, while daydreaming of it in the bed, scratching my disheveled long hair and smoothing out my wrinkled PJs. In reality, I'm just a struggling, weak lass who wants to get somewhere in life, and has chosen to take the first step by writing her emotions out her body.

     But that's what's important – weakness is not a crime, but inaction is. Just look at Japan – during WWII, even though they were causing great suffering across the world, and to their own people, the country still mouthed flowery rhetoric of "inevitable victory" all the way through to the very end (Grisaia). In contrast, I've taken the first step, reaching out to y'all – and I hope that my voice will be heard and change at least one person, somewhere, someplace in this goddam wide world.

Sincerely, Coco46448

Ambitious Author