Is there a "correct answer" in this world? Today, too, two versions of me are whispering in my brain.

The duality within the brain and a world without answers

"I wish someone would tell me the right answer."

"No, there is no such thing as a right answer."

Today, too, two versions of me are busily holding a meeting inside my brain. And they are doing it at a volume so loud I want to cover my ears.

These whispers sneak into every moment of my daily life. When I am at my desk, clacking away at my keyboard, when I am having idle conversation with someone, or when I am standing at a minor crossroads in life, trying to make a decision.

And—especially when I have made a painful mistake at work and am being blown by the night breeze on my way home—they (whoever they are) whisper to me mercilessly, one after another.

"...I want to know the right answer."

That is my true feeling. I want, more than anything, a "model answer" that everyone can agree on.

But at the same time, there is a part of me that coldly understands. Such a thing probably doesn't exist anywhere in this world.

After all, if there were "only one right answer" to every phenomenon in this world, humanity would have found it long ago. And they would have put it in textbooks for compulsory education, and everyone would surely be building a peaceful, ripple-free society in accordance with that answer.

The fact that this hasn't happened means exactly that.

Especially in the fields of "education" and "childcare" that I have been involved in, and the "clerical work" I am facing now. All of these exist within a gradation of a "world without right answers."

An action that is a "correct answer" that saves one person to the point of tears can be an "incorrect answer" that makes another person frown. In the midst of such days filled with contradictions, I am currently swaying violently.

The child by the window and the mountain of documents

I would like you to take a peek at my brain's meeting, a bit more concretely.

For example, back when I was in the field of childcare and education.

Evening in the classroom, free time. At the edge of the class, by the window, there was a boy playing with a toy car all by himself. The other children were happily building a large castle with blocks.

The "me who wants the right answer" in my brain gets impatient and raises its voice.

"Should I call out to him so he can join the group? Fostering cooperativeness is also an important part of childcare work."

However, the other me coldly holds me back.

"Wait. He's a child who likes playing by himself. Isn't it my ego to force him to participate?"

In the end, I decided not to call out to him and watched from a little distance away. The boy was playing with his toy cars, looking very happy.

If he's having fun, then that's fine. At the time, I thought, "Watching over him was the right choice." However, the moment his guardian came to pick him up and asked anxiously, "Was my child all alone again today? He keeps playing by himself, so I'm worried that he'll be the same when he enters elementary school...", my heart gave a sharp pang.

Perhaps the correct answer for the guardian was "for the teacher to step in and make him play with his friends." My correct answer becomes someone else's incorrect answer.

A night of failure, a blaring siren

What wears my heart down the most is when I commit a clear "failure."

Last week, during routine administrative work, I made a careless mistake by omitting some data entry. Fortunately, a senior colleague noticed and followed up before any real harm was done, but the regret and shame I felt at that moment were indescribable.

"Why didn't you do it properly?" I blame myself.

Then, the meeting in my brain develops into an uncontrollable, raging fire.

"It's impossible to be taught something briefly and then put it into practice! The correct answer is to create a system, like ensuring a double-check while you're still getting used to it!"

"No, no, if you increase the checks, the workload will be squeezed, and that will just create different mistakes."

"Then does that mean I'm not cut out for this because I can't even do this? Is the correct answer to quit my job?"

"Don't resort to extreme arguments!"

I want to cover my ears to the siren blaring inside my brain.

I want to know the correct answer.

Could someone give me a stamped certificate that says, "Do this and you'll get a perfect score," or "You are not wrong"?

A loop of thoughts spinning around in the same place. Even after I get into bed at night, staring at the ceiling, the whispers of the two versions of me do not stop.

The "salvation" of there being no correct answer

However, at the end of such sleepless nights, a moment suddenly arrived where my vision seemed to clear.

It was truly a strange sensation, like a single ray of light shining into the darkness.

'...Wait a minute,' I say, tossing and turning in bed.

What if there is no 'single absolute correct answer' in this world?

At first glance, that might seem like despair, as if being thrown into a dark wilderness, but if you look at it from a different perspective, isn't it incredibly 'free' and 'kind'?

The fact that there is no textbook-perfect answer means, conversely, that 'no one can condemn me by saying, You are 100% wrong.'

Watching over a boy by the window.

Feeling down after making a mistake and desperately thinking about how to handle the next step.

From one perspective, all of these were undoubtedly the 'correct answers at that time' that I arrived at with all my might, in that moment, in that place.

There is no need to become unable to do anything out of fear that it might be the wrong answer for someone else.

After all, no matter how things turn out, a 'correct answer' that satisfies all of humanity at once does not exist anywhere in this world. In fact, isn't it because there is no 'correct answer' that everyone strives to get closer to one? Having no 'correct answer' is neither a mistake nor a bad thing.

With a lighter step, toward tomorrow.

The moment I realized that, I felt as if the heavy lump stuck deep in my chest was melting away. The tension in my shoulders simply dropped.

As always, two versions of me live inside my head.

Tomorrow, too, I'm sure they will start making noise at my office desk, or in the middle of a conversation with someone, asking, 'Which one is the correct answer?'

But from now on, I think I'll be able to watch over those two in my mind with a slightly warm, detached gaze.

'Yes, yes, here we go again,' I'll say.

If the two of them start making noise, it's proof that I am taking my work or the person in front of me that seriously.

The journey to search for the correct answer will continue.

But it is changing from a painful obsession that makes me want to cover my ears into a slightly exciting, creative process of wondering what kind of answer I will create today.

Tomorrow, when I open the office door, I'll start by facing the documents in front of me with a smile.

I won't seek a perfect answer.

I will simply continue to carefully stack, one by one, the choices that I feel are right for me right now.