Three Crimson Threads Biting into the Fingers / Unraveling Wounds, Moments of Respite, and the Philosophy of Daily Life That Eventually Becomes Cloth

Three Crimson Threads Biting into the Fingers

Unraveling Wounds, Moments of Respite, and the Philosophy of Daily Life That Eventually Becomes Cloth

Introduction

The theory that there are only three red threads of fate in a lifetime. The first is a poignant, dense blood-red, torn away forcefully in the name of youth. The second is a light, slightly cunning sunset-red, reeled in from the shadows of failure. The third is the red of a charcoal brazier, lacking the impact of thunder, yet one that has walked by my side for thirty years before I even noticed.

Yutaka Seo (58) unravels human karma and endearment with refined intellectual humor and a hint of malice. Why do people hurt each other, seek escape, and eventually just eat a meal together? A soul's observation log that dismantles the illusions of love and arrives at a warm resignation.

Main Text

Chapter 1: The Crimson Memory Remaining on the Finger Joints

At the hour when the silence of the night swallows the noise of the factory district, I stare at my left hand on the edge of my desk.

The faint indentation remaining at the base of my nail.

Scars that have clung to the depths of my memory.

People mistake the threads of fate for something delicate, like silk.

A huge mistake.

The thread handed to you at the start is thick, like a coarse hemp rope, so tough it is difficult to even tear.

The naive fingertips of one's twenties only apply unnecessary force.

Cold sweat seeping into the palm gripping the receiver.

A task of merely counting the signal tones ringing in my ear.

With a single reaction from the other person, my own sense of self-worth swings between heaven and earth.

The desire to be understood erupts from my mouth as a violent argument.

Believing that admitting loneliness is a defeat, I clench my back teeth and decide to remain silent.

Even if their gaze just slightly drifted away, I would clench my fist until my nails dug into my palm.

A thread that is too thick does not connect two people; it becomes a rope that strangles them both.

The arrogance of believing that love justifies everything creates a reckless intensity.

Assuming it wouldn't break, we pulled at it with all our might.

The fibers, pushed beyond their limit, scream and snap with a dry sound.

The ends of the thread, snapping back from the recoil, tear deep into each other's skin.

A red like blood.

Feverish, painful, and with a sense of exhilaration so intense it feels like bleeding to death.

To be tied together, our skin was far too soft.

A love like a clumsy child swinging a blade.

The severed ends of a thread will never connect again.

Twitching scars carved into the finger joints.

Threads that have lost their knots continue to assert a discomforting pain deep within the skin, even as time passes.

Proof of foolishness.

An indelible postmark.

Chapter 2: Rain-slicked Asphalt and the Heat of a Paper Cup

A heart turned into a scorched field by the first explosion does not regenerate easily.

Days spent standing amidst piles of rubble, face covered in ash.

Humans are not such strong creatures.

There is no way to return to an orderly life immediately.

At such a time, one reaches for a second thread.

Surprisingly thin, unreliable, and light.

A suburban fast-food restaurant.

The smell of oil filling the shop and the coldness of the plastic chairs.

Outside the rain-streaked window, the light of headlights slides by.

A student from Fukuoka University sitting across from me.

The gesture of biting the tip of a straw with their front teeth.

Idle, aimless chatter.

Complaints about university lectures, the silly plot of a movie watched last night.

There is not even a hint of that feeling of the chest tightening.

The world does not shine, and I am not swayed by the words of others.

A place far removed from the terror of having one's heart seized.

What exists there is a peace like that of a sterile room.

A faint sense of absurdity and shallow breaths.

More of a rehabilitation than a romance.

Not a grand justification called destiny, but a small awning to shelter from a sudden gust of wind.

Can I still endure the gaze of another?

As a woman, or perhaps as a man, am I socially dead?

A biological reaction test to confirm just that.

For them, as for me, we are each other's 'convenient shelter'.

A shallow, comical, and slightly cunning time.

The red of twilight.

The madder-colored sky that fades away all too soon.

Not a thread to bind us deeply, but a lifeline to confirm our survival.

Those who despise frivolous love have never truly been wounded.

There are times when shallow wounds require shallow bandages.

It doesn't need to have meaning.

As long as I can just catch my breath in that moment.

Like dry asphalt soaking up rainwater, the empty time passed quietly.

Chapter 3: The Faint Heat of Charcoal and Thirty Years of Weaving

The third thread was not at all spectacular.

No fanfare played.

No lightning struck.

The person who appeared before me did not carry a sign saying 'destined partner'.

My first impression was that they were part of the scenery.

They had the same presence as a roadside guardrail or a long-neglected mailbox.

The flames of dramatic love did not exist from the start.

It was just that when we were in the same room, our breathing did not clash.

Morning arrives.

The unpleasant sound of the alarm clock rings out.

We take turns brushing our teeth in the washroom.

Steam rises from the miso soup, and the smell of burnt toast drifts through the air.

Even without exchanging words, the silence does not become a weapon.

A grumpy Tuesday.

Irritation without a cause makes the air in the room heavy.

Nights spent sleeping with our backs turned to each other.

Time spent watching the condensation on a sports drink left by the bedside while feeling unwell.

The absurdity known as life.

The thread connects that series of ugly days smoothly, without ever being severed.

My younger self, who believed that only threads that burned brightly were real.

The foolishness of mistaking the heat of a burn for the measure of love.

As one grows older, the distortion in one's vision is corrected.

There is no need for the thread that burned the brightest to be the same as the one that never slipped from your fingers until the end.

The red of a charcoal brazier.

It does not send up flashy flames.

Yet, if you hold your hands over it, a reliable warmth is always there.

A faint heat that seems like it might vanish, but never does.

Orange embers lying silently in wait beneath the ash.

Before I knew it, thirty years of time had piled up at my feet.

The scar left by the first thread, the red of blood.

The fleeting absurdity gifted by the second thread, the red of twilight.

The third realm, reached only by those who have passed through the others.

It no longer retains the shape of a single thread.

It is a single piece of cloth, woven from vertical and horizontal threads that have densely intersected, been washed, frayed, and mended.

A texture like an old blanket that blocks the cold wind and wraps around the body.

Chapter 4: A Gaze That Deconstructs the Illusion of Love

People love to get intoxicated by the word 'fate'.

They want to believe that a single, special thread has been wrapped around their finger since the moment they were born.

What a blissful romanticism.

In reality, it is nothing more than the work of groping through countless scraps of thread scattered at one's feet, getting covered in mud in the process.

Those who blindly believe in the first thread will forever mistake pain for love.

A sickness where one can only feel love by hurting one another.

Those who mock the second thread are shallow perfectionists incapable of understanding human fragility.

People cannot live without an escape.

And those who cannot endure the plainness of the third thread are eternal children who keep fleeing from the serious struggle called life.

It is not that the first thread cannot be forgotten.

It is simply that it cannot be erased, as it is a memory of the foolishness one has committed.

It is not that the second thread was light.

That was simply the limit of the weight that the version of me at that time could bear.

And the third thread is not a product obtained through effort.

It is merely a byproduct of chance, woven from simple resignation and a faint sense of tolerance.

Love is not an emotion.

It is another name for 'habit' and 'resignation' built over time.

The skill of closing one's eyes to the flaws of another.

The audacity to set aside one's own selfishness.

People beautifully call the state where these things become complexly intertwined and impossible to unravel a 'bond'.

A play on words.

A clever lie.

Yet, that very lie becomes the only garment that warms a cold life.

The three threads each fulfill their different roles, and then their roles come to an end.

If even one of these were missing, the current fabric would not be complete.

I learn pain from the red of blood, steady my breathing with the red of the sunset, and find warmth in the red of charcoal embers.

Life is, in truth, a cleverly crafted, ironic tapestry.

Chapter 5: Seo's 'Theory of Three Chances to Meet a Partner in Life?' The Vital Point

The discourse that 'there are three red threads'.

It is likely my role to pour cold water on those who flock to this romantic calculation.

The world gets excited when they hear that 'there are three fated people'.

Saying things like 'there are still two more chances' or 'the next person might be the real one'.

I have to say, that is a rather naive way of thinking.

The vital point is here.

The 'three threads' are not choices you can select, but an irreversible process of the spirit that you must pass through.

I call the first thread 'runaway'.

I call the second thread 'escape'.

I call the third thread 'compromise and settlement'.

People cannot choose the third thread from the start.

The first one is a collision that happens like an accident during one's youth, when the ego is inflated.

Unless one suffers a painful loss of blood here, human arrogance cannot be corrected.

It is a demolition project to learn that people other than yourself are 'independent entities that do not go according to your will'.

The second one that follows is a 'transitional object' during the recovery period.

A convenient stepping stone to repair a wounded self-esteem.

It is presumptuous to call this "pure love."

It is merely a self-defense mechanism.

However, if one does not permit oneself this bit of dishonesty, one cannot move on to the next stage.

And the third thread.

This is a grace granted only to those who have given up on pursuing their ideals.

As long as you are expecting a lightning-strike encounter, you will not see the third thread.

The miscellaneous daily life before your eyes, the dull partner, the uninteresting conversation.

The moment you accept these with a "well, I suppose this is fine," the thread begins to thicken on its own.

It is not that "there are three soulmates."

It is simply that "it takes at least three failures or transitions for a human to be able to face another person properly." as it were.

It is not a matter of the number of threads.

It is nothing more than a record of spiritual growth, measuring how much one has become aware of one's own foolishness.

When the third thread transforms into cloth, one finally realizes.

The legitimacy of the fact that the person you loved the most and the person you spend the most time with are different.

You are free to yearn for the red of blood.

But you cannot continue to live within the red of blood.

For humans are creatures who drink tea quietly while wrapped in old cloth in a warm room.

<End>

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