The story of me, who found a dream but cannot move forward
I finally found it.
For the first time, my heart surged with a feeling of, "This is it!"
That is "writing."
Someday, I want to make "writing" my job.
I finally found it.
I searched for so, so long, and finally.
But lately, I suddenly wonder.
Is that really a "dream"?
Am I just clinging to "myself who found a dream"
"myself who has something I want to do"
or "myself who finally found it"?
Because I can't write the way I want to.
No, I am writing.
In the memo app on my smartphone.
In my LINE memos.
In my journaling app.
In the Rollbahn notebook I always carry with me.
And in voice memos, too.
But I can't put them together well
and post them on note.
If someone asked, "Are you writing every day?" I would be at a loss for an answer.
I want to write. Every day, all the time.
From the moment I wake up in the morning, I think, "Can I write today?"
What I am writing right now, too,
came to mind when I suddenly woke up in the middle of last night.
Something that had been drifting aimlessly through my heart and head
suddenly felt like it had taken firm shape,
and just as I was closing my eyes, I thought,
"Ah, this is it. This is what I want to write. I'll write this tomorrow."
Since becoming an adult, this was the first time
I had encountered something that made my heart tremble with "I want to do this!"
That was "writing."
And if possible, I want to make it my job.
I want to earn an income from it. I want to make it a part of my life.
Every time I read a piece of writing, I get excited,
groaning, "Hmm! As expected!"
or being moved, "Wow! What an expression!"
In the process of steadily facing myself,
the moment those feelings that couldn't be put into words finally became words,
that lukewarm, somewhat heavy feeling
is washed away all at once by cold water—that sense of exhilaration.
When you find something you want to do,
your heart becomes this happy.
At this age, I learned that for the first time.
"What's your dream?" "What do you want to do?"
I, who could never answer those questions,
could finally say,
"I have something I want to do!"
I searched for a long time and couldn't find it,
and eventually I thought,
that in this world, there are two groups: people who have dreams and achieve them,
and people who cannot have dreams,
and that I was the latter.
I am not a person from that side.
It can't be helped, right? It can't be helped.
That's how I had convinced myself.
But I finally found it.
What I want to do.
And yet, my note isn't progressing.
A dream, something you want to do,
is something you'd spare no time to sleep to do, right?
Something you end up doing naturally no matter how tired you are,
that's what "something you want to do" really is, right?
Then, what about me?
I'm just thinking about it,
but I'm not actually moving.
Is that really something I want to do?
—Lately, I hear that voice.
Every day, that voice keeps getting louder.
You know, I want someone to nod at me.
"That's right, your dream is to become a 'writer,' isn't it?"
"It's okay for you to be there."
"It's okay for you to aim for that."
"It's okay for you to have that dream."
I don't want to let go.
Because I finally found it.
My dream, what I want to do.
But isn't this just an obsession with "myself who has a dream"?
I, who thought I was on the side that couldn't have dreams,
feel like I've finally come to this side,
and am I just not wanting to lose that?
I suddenly flipped through a dictionary.
"Desire"—to want something. To crave or covet.
Or that feeling.
"Obsession"—to be strongly attracted to something.
To be captivated by something and unable to let go.
I stared at those words, blankly, vacantly.
After all, isn't this an "obsession"?
No, it's desire, right?
No matter how I think about it, it's desire.
…When I was thinking that,
an image floated into my head.
Me, climbing a ladder
while carefully holding a sparkling box called "writing"
to my chest.
From below, someone is saying mean things like, "That's just an obsession!"
and grabbing my feet.
That was—without a doubt, me.
I pretend not to hear,
clutch the box called "writing" tightly,
and continue climbing the ladder
so I don't drop it.
Next time, if they grab my feet again,
I think I'll kick them in the face.
I am the only one who can protect my desire.
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