The Scenery Where I Was

I sometimes wonder what will happen to this room
after I am gone.

I am already fifty, so it is not decades away, but
ten years from now, a few years from now, or perhaps even months...
In any case, the day will come when I return to the real world.

The bed I am lying on right now.
After my health declined,
I visited many stores looking for a mattress,
and after trying them out, I finally found this one.

—Oh, that's right, this large pillow.
After my health declined, my neck hurt so much I couldn't use a pillow.
I wonder how many pillows I bought, from online shops to physical stores.
People apparently call it being a "pillow refugee"...

In the end, none of them fit,
and sleeping without a pillow became the norm.
One day, I happened to try sleeping with this large pillow
that I had used before my health declined,
and I was able to sleep without pain, so I returned to using a pillow.

Now, I rest my head on that pillow every night to sleep.
There are times when my neck hurts when I go to sleep or wake up,
but even so, it is the normal sleep I have finally regained.

Once I am gone, that bed and that pillow,
naturally, will no longer be used by anyone.

The indentation in the pillow will fade, the futon will be folded after a while,
and whether it is put away or disposed of,
in any case, it will no longer be 'my bed'.

What about the chair I am sitting in and writing on right now?
I wonder if someone will use it after I am gone.

The chair I bought along with the bed.
A black executive chair with armrests on both sides—
I liked it the moment I sat in it.
Above all, unlike other chairs, it doesn't make my back hurt.

I spend most of my day sitting in this chair,
opening my laptop,
doing work—though it doesn't pay enough to really be called work,
but work is work nonetheless—
and struggling as I write on note.

On the desk, there are books I'm in the middle of reading,
papers I put there thinking I'd look at them later, chargers,
and various small items I don't even know what they are.
While I am alive, they all seem to have meaning,
but once I am gone, they will probably all
just become 'things to be cleaned up' to someone else.

Life is strange; even if everything is necessary to the person living it,
the moment they are gone, it all becomes mere abandoned property.

The very moment my "consciousness" vanishes from this world,
this room will surely be wrapped in an unfathomable silence.

There, the sound of me typing on the keyboard will no longer exist,
nor the scent of tea brewed in the dead of night,
and certainly not that burning impulse
that was screaming from the depths of my heart.

―― But, for a while, some things will remain.

The sun-faded marks on the curtains.
The indentation where the bed used to be.
The small scratches on the wall.
The air that has long been steeped in this place.

Such things silently prove that someone was here.

I went to visit the grave on March 20th.

The gravestone is inscribed with "Grave of the [Surname] Family."
— It is the grave I will enter.

It is a grave built by several households in the neighborhood
with the same surname, sharing the cost.

Among so many people,
the bones of the body that was me
will likely be placed apologetically in some corner.

I have neither wife nor children.
I have no close friends either.
Therefore, there is no one to come and put their hands together in prayer for me,
so perhaps my name will just be carved onto a gravestone, and that will be the end of it.

People who have absolutely
no connection or ties to me
put their hands together in prayer for someone who is not me,
so maybe it is not the case that no one will ever pray for me...

I believe that a life with a wife and children is a happy one, but
when I look out at the world, it seems that is not always the case—

Because they have a wife and children,
men, women, and children become unhappy.
There are so many sad things,
that I truly feel the world of humanity is something beyond understanding.

—Well, perhaps being remembered by others is not the only proof of one's existence.

The room I used.
The bed I slept in.
The stone with my name engraved on it.
The seasons passing by without anyone noticing.

Even after I am gone, the same morning sun as yesterday will shine through the window,
and dust will turn into particles of light and dance.

Perhaps the scenery where I was
only truly becomes 'complete' once I am gone.