700 Days of Layering Words | The Pride of a Person in Their 50s Who Doesn't Stop Living [Continuous Note Posting]

700 days of layering words

✨First, please read this while playing some background music.

This is EX-FAX-CE.

My continuous posting on note has reached 700 days.

I am grateful for the congratulatory words I already received on yesterday's post.
First and foremost, these 700 days are thanks to everyone's support.
Thank you very much.

Writing it this way might make it look like I've accomplished something.
Sometimes people tell me it's amazing to keep writing every single day.

I am grateful.
Truly grateful.

However, my own feeling is a little different.

Rather than proudly saying "I have achieved it,"
I am quietly exhaling,
thinking, "Ah, so it hasn't been interrupted up to this point."

700 days.

At 365 days, 400 days, 500 days, and 600 days,
the words I've written at these milestones have always carried the same sentiment.

Looking only at the number, it is quite large.
However, each of those days was by no means flashy.

There were days watching over my father's health,
days being pushed around by my mother's dementia,
days moving while reading the atmosphere in the house,
thinking about my daughter's developmental disability,
thinking about my wife's hospitalization,
thinking about work arrangements,
and days where I sighed just a little at my own physical ailments.

In between all that, I have been writing.

In other words, 700 days is
not just a number of accumulated sentences.

It is a record of not stopping my life,
a record of somehow holding on while dealing with caregiving,
and a record of keeping my body and mind in my 50s going by coaxing them along.

It is not a flashy victory.

Even so, I have my own sense of pride.

Running the household.
Placing words.
Not letting go of myself completely.

That is all there is to it.
However, continuing that "all there is to it" for 700 days was, unexpectedly, not easy.

Not stopping life

When you reach your 50s, life becomes more concrete than you had imagined.

Rather than big words like dreams or hopes,
medication times, preparing meals, taking out the trash, hospital visits, caretaking, work, payments, lack of sleep.
Above all, the changes in my own body.
The decline I began to feel in my late 40s and have felt definitively since turning 50.
Those things press upon me much more as reality.

It is even more so since caregiving began.

Watching my father's condition.
Watching my mother's state.
Thinking about the burden on the family.
Trying to keep the atmosphere in the house from collapsing.

Caregiving does not go according to plan.

What worked yesterday does not necessarily work today.
Things I thought I had persuaded them on return to zero the next day.
Small victories vanish by the next morning as if nothing had happened.

Efficiency, time performance, cost performance.

These are used as convenient words in the world, but
in the field of caregiving, they are mostly powerless.

It takes time, it requires care, it is exhausting.

Even so, life cannot be stopped.

Even if someone gets grumpy,
even if they are tired or fall silent,
the house must keep running.

I write amidst all that.

I am not writing in a fine study with a composed state of mind.
While listening to the sounds of the house.
While being mindful of my father's presence.
While wondering if my mother might start saying something.
Sometimes, I type characters with an exhausted head.

Still, I write.

Because by writing, I can barely manage to keep my own outline intact.

Writing was not a reboot, but maintenance

There was a time when I thought of writing as a "fresh start."

Starting over again.
Becoming a new self.
Rebuilding my life.

Perhaps I was clinging to words like those somewhere.

But after writing for 700 days, I think this.

Life cannot be rebooted so easily.

It's not as convenient as a computer, where you can just turn it off and start it up again to make it run faster.

You have to keep moving forward while carrying old wounds, regrets, fatigue, and the weight of daily life.

As a former CE, that feeling resonates more with me.

Machines were the same.

You can't return them to brand new. There is wear and tear from age. Sometimes parts are weak. Sometimes parts are no longer in stock.

Even so, in the field, you somehow make them work. You listen to the sounds, clear the jams, wipe away the dirt, search for the cause, and get it to where it needs to be for today.

For me now, writing on Note is close to that.

I inspect the old machine that is myself, little by little, every day.

Where is it jammed today? Where is that strange noise coming from? What words do I need to put down to get it moving just a little better?

Writing was not a reboot.

It was maintenance.

Maintenance of life. Maintenance of the heart. A desperate operational check of the human being that is me.

The fact that it has continued for 700 days means that I have inspected myself 700 times, just a little bit.

Layering as a quiet resistance

I believe that writing is layering.

It is not about painting over the past self. It is not about erasing bad days. It is not about leaving behind only a polished version of myself.

Even on days when I am tired, days when I feel pathetic, days when I am a little angry, or days when I couldn't smile properly, I still manage to put it into words.

Like layering thin sheets of paper one by one.
Or like ancient strata gradually gaining thickness.

Only then does my own outline begin to come into view.

700 days' worth of words are not a medal for me.
Rather, they are like small scars left on the walls of a maze.

I passed through here.
I was lost on this day, too.
I was tired.
But I was still walking.

They are marks of that.

Just because I have written for 700 days does not mean the exit to the maze of life suddenly appears.
My father's care continues.
My mother's dementia continues.
Work, life, and my own body's issues continue as well.

Even so, I can leave a record.

Even if I cannot see the exit,
I can at least leave a mark that I passed through here today.

That is what Note is to me.

The pride of not exaggerating

Having written for 700 days, one thing has become clearer than before.

I do not want to write exaggerated prose.

Writing that makes me look bigger than I am.
Writing that makes me look enlightened.
Writing that makes me look like someone who has overcome everything.

Those things do not really suit me.

I get tired like anyone else.
I get angry.
I get depressed.
I feel pathetic.

A body in its 50s does not move like it did when I was young.
My heart, too, cannot keep going on willpower alone.
Even if I am grateful to my family, there are days when I want to be alone.
Even if I am providing care, it does not mean I can become a noble person.

Even so, I want to be kind to others.

To write while holding onto this contradiction.
I think that is what my writing is now.

Do not decorate.
Or rather, do not exaggerate.

Caregiving, life, being in your 50s, the lost generation,
none of these things wrap up so neatly.

If I try to force it all together, something will become a lie.

That is why I write as it is, as much as I can.

Of course, I cannot write everything bare. There is my family to consider. There is my daily life to consider. There is also a boundary between what I can write and what is better left unwritten.

However, I do not want to lie about the temperature of my feelings.

Rather than skillful writing, I want to write words that are truly alive.

That is my own personal pride.

Writing as a 50-something from the Lost Generation ice age

I am from the first generation of the Lost Generation ice age.

Every time I use this term, I feel a little bit troubled. There are probably voices saying, 'How long are you going to keep talking about that?'

But, after all, it is a stratum within me that I cannot avoid.

By the time I entered society, the air had turned cold. The life path I had envisioned was never there to begin with. I worked as a CE for 17 years, and the company dissolved amidst the changes of the era. Even after that, I was not able to skillfully ride the waves of the times.

Even so, I have lived.

This is not a story of a great comeback. It is not a success story either. It is just a story of how I somehow made it to today.

But now, I think.

Isn't that enough?

Even for someone who didn't become 'someone,' there are things worth writing. Even for someone without great success, there are words that can be left behind.

Perhaps it is precisely in the daily life that falls out of glamorous stories that there is a warmth that can reach someone's heart.

The aging of parents. Anxiety about living expenses. The decline of the body. The instability of work. Memories of the town from long ago. And those silly moments that still make me laugh sometimes.

I will write about such things.

As a 50-something of the Lost Generation, I will continue to record my daily life that is not yet over.

I think this is less of an assertion and more of a
quiet resistance,
and my own personal pride.

Because there were readers

I couldn't have kept this up for 700 days on my own strength.

There were people who read it.
There were people who clicked 'like'.
There were people who left comments.
There were also people who said nothing, but would occasionally drop by to read.

I cannot express how much that supported me.

A writer is lonely.

But you cannot keep going in complete isolation.

Someone is reading.
Somewhere, a sentence is reaching someone.
There might be someone who thinks, 'I understand.'

I have been saved many times by those small signs of presence.

Especially when writing about caregiving, the body in one's 50s, and the perspective of the Lost Generation, I often think.

This is my own story, yet it is not just my own story.

People who are facing the aging of their parents in the same way.
People who are bewildered by the changes in their own bodies.
People who are standing in a place different from the future they envisioned when they were young.
Yet, people who are somehow managing to get through today.

I feel like I am quietly connecting with such people through my writing.

I don't want to encourage them with a loud voice.

I cannot easily say 'do your best'.
Everyone is already doing enough.

That is why I simply write.

I am managing somehow, too.
I hope you, too, can get through today.

Like a small signal like that.

A small break is also a form of pride

To write every day, willpower alone is not enough.

Motivation doesn't last long.
Especially in your 50s, if you try to rely solely on willpower, your body will start complaining first.

That's why, lately, I've been cherishing small moments of relief.

A 5 or 10-minute home camping session.
Daydreaming about travel.
Walking to a small hill.
Making maps of old Yoga.
Meeting friends occasionally to get a little fresh air.

None of these are flashy.

But because they aren't flashy, they last.

In a life involving caregiving, your own time will disappear if you leave it alone.
So, you have to create it for yourself in small ways.

Drinking coffee at the front door.
Looking at the sky.
Gazing at maps.
Remembering the streets of the past.
Walking a little.

Just doing that can sometimes help you catch your breath again.

This is not running away.

It is a technique for holding on.

Don't take keeping yourself together lightly.
Don't be ashamed of the small adjustments you make to keep from collapsing.

I think that, too, is the pride of a 50-something who keeps life moving.

Where I am at 700 days

Just because I've continued for 700 days doesn't mean anything is complete.

If anything, I'm still in the middle of it.

My father's care continues.
My mother's dementia continues.
There are household matters, work, and my own body to deal with.

The maze of life remains a maze, as always.

However, there is something I understand a little better than before.

Even within the maze, I can leave words behind.

Even if I can't see the exit,
while keeping my hand on the wall,
I can leave a mark that I passed through here today.

For me, note was that mark.

It is for someone else, and it is also for myself.

When my future self looks back on this, I might think, "I was doing well back then, too."

That level is fine. But that level is, unexpectedly, important.

700 days' worth of words are a confirmation of survival, a maintenance of daily life, and the outline of myself that did not disappear.

Conclusion: Not Stopping Life Today Either

700 days of continuous posting.

To those who read this far, and to those who have read until now, thank you very much.

I cannot say anything grandiose.

I cannot guarantee that I will be able to write perfect sentences every day from here on out. There will be days when I am not feeling well. There will be days when I have no room to spare due to family circumstances. There will be days when my spirits are low, and days when the words just won't come.

Even so, I will continue to write as much as I can.

About caregiving. About the body in one's 50s. About memories as a member of the lost generation. About the era I saw as a former FAX repair CE. About family. About the small laughs of daily life. And, about the feelings I don't want to throw away yet.

From here on, I will continue to write without embellishment.

Unwaveringly and straightforwardly.

These are not the words of a strong person. They are a password used by someone who has wavered many times, just to keep from falling over.

700 days is not the goal.

It is just a passing point. But it is not a light passing point.

Up to this point, I have not stopped living. I have not let go of words. I have somehow managed to stay connected with my readers.

That is the only thing I want to keep quietly in my heart.

Today, too, I write.

Maintain your life.
As if inspecting yourself.
As if waving a small hand to someone.

Words are not a reboot, but proof of continuity.

I suppose I could say that now that I've come this far, I'm aiming for 1000 days,
but you never know what life will bring.
You never know what will happen tomorrow.
The ordinary daily life we have now is not eternal.
That is why I make no declarations.

And the layered words
have become my own pride
for not stopping my life.

Today, on the 700th day,
I think so once again.

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👉️A way of life based on your own axis, not comparing yourself to others [50s]

👇️Please check this out too

👉️In the middle of the journey called nursing care

👉️Getting to know EX-FAX-CE [Click here if you are a first-time reader]

I write every day about the body of a 50-something, nursing care, the daily life of the lost generation, and the perspective of a former FAX repair CE.
I would be happy if you came to read again.