Sei Shonagon appears on the internet. The internet is fascinating.

In this day and age, there is a place where even people without status, rank, or known names can write down their daily thoughts and show them to the world.

It is a truly strange thing.

In the past, even those who found it difficult to obtain paper are now writing about the color of the morning sky, their frustrations with their spouses, the sleeping faces of their cats, and even the sweets they have eaten. Moreover, people in distant lands read these things in an instant.

This is fascinating.

It is also fascinating that the writings of unknown people sometimes strike the heart more suddenly than those written by famous figures. A short message written by someone caring for a sick parent while boiling water in the middle of the night is far more moving than the long discourses of distinguished scholars.

In the past, only the sorrows of the high-born were turned into poetry. Now, those scolded by customers at shops, those making lunch boxes for their children, and those who have lost their jobs all leave records of their days.

I am surprised to realize that people have been living in silence while harboring so many thoughts.

However, not everything is good.

There are those who write every day: 'I woke up, I drank coffee, I will do my best today.' Even though it was the same yesterday, they show it again today. Who asked them to do so?

There are those who write only, 'I cannot go into details, but something sad happened,' and wait for people to ask, 'Are you okay?' If they cannot go into details, they should have just stayed silent from the start.

There are those who want to show off their beauty, yet say, 'I cut my hair,' while posting a large photo of their face. Those who say, 'Even someone like me,' while waiting for a hundred compliments. It is all too easy to understand.

Also, it is pathetic how, as soon as someone finds a mistake made by another, a crowd of strangers gathers to hurl words of justice. Even the gossip among the ladies-in-waiting at court was done with a bit more discretion.

That said, I am in no position to talk.

I used to write whatever I pleased about men who annoyed me, people who lacked wit, and the beauty of the dawn in spring. To think that people a thousand years later are still reading those things is truly terrifying.

If I were given this small tablet, I would surely write on it many times a day.

And, while claiming, 'I just wrote what came to mind,' I would undoubtedly check every night to see who had read it.

A place called the internet

SNS is best at night. The screen you open after finishing your day's work, or perhaps without finishing it at all, while tucked into your futon. In that pale blue light, the time right at the boundary where the desire to stay awake and the thought that you must sleep already are at war—the way your fingertips keep scrolling on their own is something indescribably good.

The daytime timeline is somewhat restless. There is a bustle to it, as if people are making small talk while working on the side. Compared to that, the late-night timeline drifts with a strange quietude and genuine sincerity. Perhaps it is the hour when everyone becomes a little more honest.

The serious look on the faces of those who check their screens first thing upon waking in the morning. They are checking what happened overnight, like scouts surveying the aftermath of a battle.

Hateful things

When a message is marked as read, yet no reply comes. When the sun sets, the night deepens, and still, it does not arrive.

People who pretend not to see your posts while diligently 'liking' the posts of others. How could they possibly not have seen them?

Writing a single sentence as a light joke, only to be surrounded and berated by a crowd of strangers. People today call this 'flaming,' and the way it becomes a commotion as if one's house were truly on fire is terrifying indeed.

Advertisements that suddenly interrupt a video just as it gets interesting. Moreover, the same ad appears over and over again. It feels as though the thread of the story is being broken, and it is utterly tiresome.

People who show private exchanges with others to everyone around without permission. I believe a letter belongs only to the person who wrote it and the person who received it, but it seems that is not the case in the world today.

Lovely things

Videos of small creatures. The sight of a kitten trying to get into a box, failing, yet not giving up and trying to squeeze its body in again and again.

The voice of a young child who has just learned to speak, talking about something in a faltering way.

The sight of an old dog noticing its owner's return and slowly wagging its tail.

Things that make the heart flutter

Finding, late at night, an unexpected little corner where only those who share the same interests have gathered. There, no one raises their voice; they simply talk quietly about the things they love.

The moment you realize that someone who thinks exactly like you truly exists somewhere in this world. Even though you have never met or even known their name, you feel as though your hearts have drawn closer for some reason.

The moment spent watching the number of 'likes' increase, one by one. Speculating about who might have pressed the button is truly charming.

The moment a notification lights up for a post from someone you like. The frantic way you open it before anything else.

Dreadful things

When a long post you wrote with great care receives no reaction from anyone.

When you post something boastfully, only to receive far fewer 'likes' than you had expected.

The way the 'typing' indicator appears and disappears, appears and disappears, and in the end, no reply comes at all.

Even though you took dozens of retakes and finally chose one to post, by the next day, no one remembers it anymore.

Adding a note

I think that in the past, to send even a single letter, one had to grind ink, choose paper, and it would take many days to arrive. Now, with just a fingertip, it is said to reach a thousand miles away in an instant. It has truly become convenient. However, whether the speed at which hearts connect has really become that fast as well, seems to be another matter entirely.

In the middle of the night, I think of the fingertips of some unknown person typing, relying only on the light of the screen. As I picture those fingertips moving as if lost, as if in a hurry, a smile suddenly breaks across my face.