The inside of the car was always
The car was a sports car.
Low to the ground, a bit rugged,
and with a somewhat temperamental form.
Riding in the back seat of that car
was my daily routine.
The music playing inside the car was always the same.
An X JAPAN album.
Whether it was a cassette or a CD,
I can no longer remember clearly.
But my body remembers
that intro alone.
When "Kurenai" would play,
Mom's mood would change just a little.
I felt like the sunglasses she always wore
shone just a little bit brighter.
She didn't press the accelerator hard,
nor did she steer the wheel roughly.
It was just, ever so slightly,
“something” coming undone. Coming loose.
Even so, the driving was always safe.
Even though it was so intense,
and music that sounded almost like screaming was playing,
Mom never lost her composure.
To me, as a child,
that balance was a mystery.
──Why, even though she was listening to music like this,
could she drive so calmly?
Now, I feel like I understand a little bit.
Mom must have,
been entrusting it to that music.
The things I couldn't say,
the emotions I've swallowed down,
and something I wanted to break.
Turning them into sound, letting them out,
and yet, so I wouldn't fall apart,
I kept a firm grip on the reins.
I was different.
In the same way,
while holding onto what had built up inside my chest,
I drove along the mountain road.
Without looking at what lay beyond the curve,
just as if I were trying to shake it all off.
The exhilaration of driving with the needle pinned.
Passing through hairpin turns without a moment's hesitation.
A high-accident zone.
One wrong move, and it's off to the afterlife. (Haha)
I didn't hate that thrill, either.
Even though I was scared. (Haha)
The sound of the wind cutting through,
The roar of the engine,
Everything was just right,
And there was no reason to stop anywhere.
And then, I got caught. (Haha)
Mom entrusted herself to the music.
I took all my feelings and
crashed them straight into reality.
Even though we are similar, our ways are different.
That's why we clashed.
That's why I didn't understand.
But surely,
what was at the root was the same.
Someone who cannot breathe
unless they let out something they cannot suppress.
Mom knew that,
and had her own way of 'releasing it safely'.
I didn't know that,
and I just started driving.
My hair was blonde, too. Super bright blonde. (lol)
A habitual offender of coming home in the morning.
That's the only difference.
The "Kurenai" I used to listen to in the backseat back then,
still remains within me, for sure.
Without fading away,
while changing its form,
it's still playing somewhere even now.
Even now, I love the heavy bass of electric guitars, drums, and bass guitars.
The things that Mom entrusted to the music back then,
I might still be searching for somewhere.