Hey, someone told me I'm interesting.

They said my article is interesting.
Oh my, I'm so happy—is that really happening?
I feel like I've received a celebratory gift.

Thank you for introducing me.
Thank you to everyone who flew over here.
I'm feeling quite shy about having ten times the usual number of views.

I've been writing articles roughly, worrying about whether to put punctuation at the end of every sentence, just writing whatever, thinking that the good thing about note is that you can write with momentum—and now they're saying it's interesting!
It makes me happy. It's wonderful to be appreciated. I want to do a little dance. Buri-n-ba-bba buri-n-ba-bba.

Since encountering note, I'm surprised to find that I had so much I wanted to say inside me.

I never thought I was good at writing, but I often got praised for letters I wrote to friends, and essays I wrote out of anger often won awards. It's a shock to realize after more than 20 years that I'm the type of person who feels comfortable pouring emotions into text, even if I'm not good at it. While I'm always grateful for meeting people, I rarely feel that way about things or services. This is the third one, after subscription music and the Roomba. The services of the last few years are amazing.

What I remember most about writing is
the time I won an award for a tax essay.

Well, at my core, I'm negative, so I'm good at complaining persistently. I was incredibly embarrassed when the content—about how my father works while drinking and smoking and pays tons of taxes—became the district representative.

More than my writing talent, perhaps the line my father said with a beer in his hand, 'Since I pay more than anyone, I have the right to be happier than anyone,' resonated. That drunkard's rambling was submitted as my tattletale essay, and the important people receiving the taxes smiled and handed me a certificate.
Thinking, 'How do these people feel? Will I be scolded after this?' I remember not being able to smile properly for the commemorative photo. I received a book card as a prize on the way home, but I could only think, 'Is this the compensation for my father's tax payments?'

Now that I've become an adult,
without letters or essays,
I have no opportunity to write as I please.


The strings of text in my head that couldn't be released became increasingly twisted and rotten. When I worked, my complaints about my boss were sublimated into bar talk that made everyone burst into laughter, and after I got married, the complaints and sarcasm stewed even more, like a long-established sauce. It was thick and couldn't be consumed on its own. It was too peculiar to call a talent. I was exhausted by the insults and negative analysis skills that were polished every day.

I sometimes worried about what the point was of honing skills in the shadows, but the skills that should have rotted away became fertilizer, turned into a routine, and became a hobby called note. It was like compost for my mental state. Oh, good for me. I feel rewarded somehow. My stiff shoulders have been feeling better lately, too.



The only things I continue, even though I'm bad at sticking with things, are
probably eating and negative thinking.

That this compost is being seen by everyone
fills me with awe and embarrassment,
but remembering those days as a Heisei girl,
I would like to send a one-line letter with honest feelings.

'Thank you for listening to my stories today, too.'

It's nice to have it reach someone.