Words, too, bleed into tissue.

On note, there is sometimes a culture of asking, "Who on earth thought of that first?"

A culture where people gather just to find amusement in something, setting aside whether it's useful or not.
"Tissue calligraphy" is probably one of those things.

When I first saw it, to be honest,
what are you talking about?
was my reaction.

Writing on a tissue.
Just hearing that, it sounds like a desperate measure when there's no paper on the desk, or perhaps a story about a pocket tissue accidentally used as a notepad.
But apparently, that's not it. It seems to be a game that is more trivial, more endearing, and just a little bit impossible to turn back from.

I am a librarian who works surrounded by books, and I have a certain respect for paper.
I write in notebooks,
I write on sticky notes.
I write on memos.
I also have a habit of wanting to write something whenever I see a blank space.
However, tissues were a blind spot.
They are so much a part of daily life, and so much of a consumable, that the idea of "putting words on them" never even occurred to me.

And yet, I ended up reading them.
The strangely earnest writings of those who came before me, centered around tissues.

Before I knew it, I was reading stories about expanding the future of tissue calligraphy while involving Kyoto University graduates, reading articles described as games that "make people smile even though they are useless," and even reading articles where the passion poured into a single sheet felt like youth itself.

Once you've come this far, you can't just stop at reading.
I have to give it a try with one sheet myself.

I take out a single tissue. It's white. Soft. Unreliable. It's so light that if I exhaled strongly, it would fly off somewhere.
I hesitate for a moment, wondering if it's okay to put a brush pen to something like this.
But I think that "is this okay?" is already the entrance.

I try writing on it gently. To my surprise, the characters hold up better than I thought. But they bleed just a little. Even though it's more fragile than paper, it's more honest than paper. There's no room for deception. The momentum, the hesitation, even the slight trembling of my hand—it all shows through just as it is.

What is this, I wonder. It's not as grand as calligraphy. It's not as practical as a memo. It's too flimsy to be called a work of art, and it feels too personal to be called a doodle. But it certainly leaves behind only the feeling that "I wrote this here, right now."

And then, I'm in trouble. The tissue I've written on can no longer be used casually. There's no way I can blow my nose with it. It feels wrong to wipe away tears with it, and I certainly can't use it to wipe up a food spill.

A single sheet that was supposed to be just a consumable suddenly starts "acting like a work of art."
Isn't that just too funny?

Perhaps that is the charm of tissue calligraphy. Writing something you want to keep on something that will soon disappear. Placing a feeling you don't want to lose onto something that is meant to vanish.

If you ask me if there's any meaning to it, there probably isn't much. But there are definitely games that slip right into your heart precisely because they have no meaning.

Even so, people who love to write words are truly incorrigible. Even when faced with a tissue that should be waiting for a runny nose, they can't help but think, "What should I write here?"

By the way, this is what I wrote on my first sheet.

I wrote on it, so I can't blow my nose anymore

It's not a profound quote or a life lesson, just a simple fact.
I have to admit, it's quite pathetic.
But for the first sheet of tissue calligraphy, I feel like this kind of simple remark suits it better than any grand words.

When I actually tried writing on one, it was more nerve-wracking than I expected. It's like paper, but not quite paper. It seems sturdy, but it isn't. If you press a little too hard, the pen catches on the fibers, and even if you try to write gently, the ink slowly bleeds.

What's more, on the one I wrote, the curve of the character "no" came out a bit faint. Ah, I thought, I messed up. But the way it faded felt strangely like a tissue, and looking at it later, I actually found it kind of endearing.

It doesn't have to be written beautifully. It doesn't have to be perfect. Perhaps the fun of "tissue calligraphy" lies in being able to enjoy those imperfections.

I've never been very confident in my handwriting. Sometimes I see people who write neat, tidy characters and think, "I wish I could do that." That's exactly why I appreciated this gentle atmosphere that welcomes the "person who tried" before it judges the quality of their penmanship.

Yes. Truly, what is this even about?

But when I come across this kind of playfulness, with its high purity of uselessness, it reminds me why I love note. The world isn't made up only of things that have meaning. Sometimes, doing something that is clearly just a detour—like writing on a tissue—can strangely brighten up your day.

Well then. Next time, I want to try making it bleed a little more beautifully.

……No. But then again, I wouldn't be able to blow my nose with it.

Sincerely, Yoshiki

P.S.

First, I read these articles,
and thought, "Tissue calligraphy looks kind of fun."

• Konishi Kinoko-san
  https://note.com/moto2_hero/n/nb07f3934929b

• Emu no Maiton-san
  https://note.com/witty_auklet639/n/ne28e62d8ddaa

• Mosquito Eri-san
  https://note.com/vast_roses882/n/ne413719536c4