I Could Only Live Within Books: Happy Writing Marathon #5

Hello.
Thank you for stopping by.

I am participating in Ken Honda's Happy Writing Marathon.

Ken Honda-san, thank you for this valuable opportunity.

To everyone who follows me,
thank you as always.

I am a bit hesitant because this article is a little different from "happy," but...

“What kind of books did you read as a child, and what did you feel?”

My childhood was a bit peculiar compared to others.

There was a curfew, and there were rules for everything.
Inside the house, "how things should be" were neatly lined up,
and I lived holding my breath so as not to step outside those boundaries.

I tried to step outside those boundaries just once.
At that time, a huge commotion occurred within my family.

—Ah, if I break the rules, the family will fall apart.

In that moment, I realized it.
From then on, I suppressed myself and tried to be the "required child," like a doll.

However, the more I acted, the more I realized I was disappearing somewhere.
I had nowhere where I could just be myself.

For me, books were the only place where I could breathe.

The rules of the world, the movements of people's hearts,
the meaning of words like love and forgiveness,
I learned it all within books.

Among them, Ayako Miura's books were a small flame quietly burning inside me.
Every book had a straightforward pain and a gentle question.

A passage from a letter written by a death row inmate to Miura-san that appeared in an essay.

When I read those words, I cried alone.
That was exactly me.

Having suppressed my emotions, I didn't understand anyone's feelings.
No, I had even started to doubt my own emotions.

However, the small part of the real me that remained

began to want to convey something through "someone" in a book.

Back then, I could only return to myself when I was reading a book.

I didn't have to meet anyone's expectations.
I didn't have to be scolded.
I didn't have to smile, and I didn't have to be angry.

There, simply, "I" existed.

I could only live within books.
But—and precisely because of that—I survived.

And now, I write stories.

For example,
the child holding their breath in the corner of the classroom, afraid of being a burden to anyone.
The child who feels like they might shatter if they speak, and has even forgotten how to laugh.
The child whose unspeakable pain is dismissed with a single word like "selfish" or "too sensitive,"
and who has closed their heart off, all alone.

I am writing for "you," who are holding your breath just like that.
It doesn't have to reach you right now.
Ten years from now, or twenty years from now, is fine.
I hope that someday, a story will gently light up in the palm of your hand.

I hope that my stories, just like the stories that once saved me,
can become someone's reason to feel that "it's okay to be alive."

That is what I believe.

I am weaving small stories called "Poem-like Stories."
If today's story has touched your heart,
—that alone makes me happy. Thank you.
I will continue to gently put the light and shadows of each day into words.
🌸 [Poem-like Stories] 🌸
→ Click here for the Poem-like Stories magazine

I have started a magazine about "writing," not limited to novels.
✍️ In this magazine, I will write about small events related to writing and the behind-the-scenes of creation.
I would be happy if I could gently stand by your desire to "try writing once more."
📘 Click here for the magazine

I received an honorable mention for "Scenery of Sadness."

• #KenHonda

• #HappyWritingMarathon