In my RPG, there is only me

I don't intend to force any 'likes' on you, so please just quietly close this when you're done reading.

Before I knew it, I wasn't interacting with anyone.
No notifications ring.
With the comment section closed, I leave my writing on note alone again today.
Like leaving something forgotten in a park late at night.
Knowing full well that no one will ever pick it up.

I imagine that the houses along the park late at night all have lights on upstairs, with everyone spending their time watching games or videos.
I feel the presence of people in the light leaking from the apartment building, and that is all.

Since it's the countryside, the streets with their shutters closed are deathly quiet, and I pass by people coming from the station.
A night of running alone at the gym, suppressing laughter while watching AbemaTV.

The reality of having no creative peers.
A heart that doubts whether a 'like' is out of obligation, a passing whim, or pressed without even reading.
On the other hand, the feeling of wanting to believe that someone who can resonate with me is out there somewhere.

Isolation that transcends loneliness. A false image where people touch each other within creativity.
It's not the freedom of not flocking together; it's the feeling of standing still in a silent space where my voice doesn't echo.
Even though I should be connected through my work, the reality is that this 'should' is an illusion.

The unreasonable treatment and pressure I can't talk back to, where I'm only considered one of the group when there's trouble.
I get hit in the corner, and I curl up so as not to cause a scene.
Even after learning that the more delicate you are, the more ferocious the monster, in my RPG, there is only me.

People often say things like, 'I was bullied in elementary or junior high school.' That's a lie, because the loneliness of a quarter-century ago is not the loneliness of today.
The loneliness in creative work is just the pain of looking back, and I realize it's nothing more than words lined up.

I think the loneliness of my elementary and junior high school days was the loneliness of a closed cage from which I couldn't escape.
It was an earnestness tied to a child's helplessness, the feeling of 'I can't go anywhere, no one understands me, I have no choice but to live here.'

The loneliness of adulthood is completely different from that.

Because I have the freedom to choose, there are more aspects where I drive myself into a corner. On the surface, it's the freedom of not interacting with anyone.

But that freedom is also a mirror that confronts me with the reality of not being needed by anyone.
Even though I can run away, the place I run to is also a deserted wilderness, and in the end, I'm just 'all alone'.

The loneliness of a quarter-century ago is a memory that has already ended.
The current loneliness is an ongoing reality that hasn't ended.
It's much more painful and much more real than any essay looking back at the past.

I have never been bullied.

Even for someone who has never been bullied, there is still an inexplicable loneliness.

In this world, there is an atmosphere where only loneliness with an easy-to-understand cause—like 'I was bullied,' 'I was abused,' or 'I was ostracized'—is treated as a legitimate pain.

However,
'Loneliness despite no notable unfortunate events'
'Loneliness despite nothing being taken away'
This is harder to explain, and it's painful precisely because it's difficult to gain empathy.

That is why the loneliness I am writing about now,
I think it is a layer separate from the 'story of victimization,' a more universal, inescapable loneliness of existence.

It's not that anyone is blaming me, and nothing has been taken away. But it is certainly here, right now.
I think this is actually more earnest.
Being lonely for no reason is scarier and more truthful than becoming lonely because I was bullied.

When I'm on the internet, I wish for the ominous omen of July 5th to come true, but when I'm in the real world, I forget about it until I stand in front of a bookstore.

The deli section where crowds gather after 8 PM. People choosing packs of fried chicken with serious expressions.

A bicycle abandoned as if to slip into the gaps of the cherry blossom trees seemed to be watching me, and I was strangely convinced, wondering if it didn't contradict the paradox of valuing new things.

And tomorrow, I will go to the park again.
Knowing full well that it won't be picked up.