Remember, Self

When I was a child, I loved books very much.

I would come home from school and read with such intensity that I wouldn't even notice it getting dark.
(As a result, my eyesight got worse.)

There were even times I didn't notice my mother writhing in pain from food poisoning after eating simmered bamboo shoots.
(Sorry, Mom!)

When I read books, I would sometimes temporarily adopt the sensibilities of a completely different person.
Like, when reading Haruki Murakami, I would somehow feel like the floor was made of linoleum.
Does that mean I'm easily influenced?
Living through emotions other than my own is very delightful.

I turn the page.
The images played back in my brain
are, of course, covered in my own delusions.
They are inevitably in a style I like.
And into that, the sensibilities of others enter.
How interesting.

But, after becoming a working adult, I forgot about such things.
Even though I was making books, I stopped reading them.
The book channel of my brain's internal delusion TV, which used to be so active, was covered in dust and holding its breath.

Then one day, a friend from work who is like the wind said:
Let's read more books.
Let's talk about books.

Really, really!
(Pun intended!)
Yes, indeed!
(As I said, I'm easily influenced.)

Once I started reading,
the book channel of my brain's internal delusion TV began projecting images as if nothing had happened.
How impressive.
Weren't you covered in dust?

And, books.
Once again, they are so interesting.

Before I knew it, I had turned into Ninomiya Kinjiro.
Good, very good.