A 5-Hour Round-Trip 'Reclamation'—My Kiwi-Colored Pen and the Proof of My Existence Carved into the Passing Seasons
A 5-Hour Round-Trip 'Reclamation'—My Kiwi-Colored Pen and the Proof of My Existence Carved into the Passing Seasons
Main Text
In the morning, when I stand on the station platform, the word 'cold' still escapes my lips naturally. It is mid-March. Even though spring should be just around the corner, the air seems to be clinging to the remnants of winter. My daily life begins in this cold air with a massive 'commute' of 2.5 hours each way, totaling 5 hours round-trip.
On my way to work as a hospital administrator, a job that demands many 'choices' and 'adjustments' every day, I build my own small sanctuary amidst the hustle and bustle of the crowded train. In one ear, I have my favorite YouTube playlist. Since new music tires my brain, I use melodies I have listened to many times as a filter, turning the surrounding noise into a moderate background sound.
And then, I take out a book and a 'Sarasa Grand' pen filled with kiwi-colored ink from my bag.
1. Carving free footprints in a restricted space
My reading is not an elegant affair conducted in a quiet study. I know my current location by the people getting on and off, and in a cramped space where I might brush shoulders with someone, I support the book with one hand and run the pen with the other. If the train sways, the lines distort, and the characters become so 'messy' that even I cannot read them later.
However, that very lack of freedom is proof of 'reality' for me.
If I deeply empathize with the content, I draw lines as if I am nodding with such force that I might break through the page. Conversely, if I encounter a 'painful' passage that confronts me with my own shortcomings, I record that realization in the margins as if to suppress the urge to run away.
The fact that I 'cannot write neatly' is the best evidence that I was truly confronting that book at that time, in that place. I feel that the distorted kiwi-colored lines drawn in a swaying train car speak more eloquently of my heart's temperature at that moment than any straight line drawn on a tidy desk.
2. Proof of time beyond 'understanding'
To be honest, I do not perfectly understand every book I finish reading. After a few months, I might even forget the details of what was written there.
There was a time when I felt impatient with myself for that. I would wonder, 'After spending all this time, what has remained within me?'
But now, it is different. Even if I cannot memorize the content, the book is engraved with the 'traces' of the 5 hours of my life that I spent facing it. The words that have sunk to the bottom of my subconscious will surely become part of my flesh and blood, appearing in my sudden judgments or my gentle gaze toward someone.
'The traces left in a book become proof of my own time.' That realization supports me. In my daily life, where I spend time for others as a hospital administrator, or as a father, or as a husband, this 5-hour 'struggle' is a crystal of pure time that I have undeniably used for myself.
3. The rushing seasons and the accumulating 'unconscious'
When I glance out the window, the seasons are rushing by with cruel speed.
The Kawazu cherry blossoms, which were blooming with such force that I was surprised by how 'fast' they were just the other day, quickly transformed into vibrant green leaves. And now, the Somei Yoshino buds I look up at on my way to the station are swelling to the point of bursting.
'Is it almost time?'
Every time I feel that, I get the sensation that time is slipping through my fingers, but when I look at the books returning to the bookshelf, my heart calms down a little. Although the seasons flow and disappear, my 'footprints of time' are firmly accumulated in the back of the bookshelf, along with the kiwi-colored ink.
When I'm in a good rhythm, I connect that heat to digital output before the train reaches the station, so as not to let it escape. The words released with the momentum of that moment gradually shape the outline of me as 'Watanbe Tau' in the cyber world. On the other hand, even on days when I don't reach the point of output, the slight fatigue in my fingertips when I put my pen back in my bag gives me a quiet sense of satisfaction that I have once again used my time well.
4. The Shape of Future 'Updates'
The season of my late thirties. If I focus on what is being lost—like declining physical strength or the difficulty of adopting new worldviews—there is no end to it. However, I believe that what I continue to do during this five-hour commute is not merely the consumption of information, but the 'reclamation' of the soil that is myself.
No matter how excellent the summaries AI provides, it cannot act as a proxy for this 'fluctuation of thought in a swaying train car' or the 'frustration of the moment the pen tip slips.' It is an inefficient, messy, yet beloved trace that belongs only to me.
As the Somei Yoshino cherry blossoms bloom, scatter, and new seasons cycle through, I will continue to walk these five hours with one earbud and my kiwi-colored pen as my companions.
Without obsessing over understanding or memorizing, I will simply love the fact that I 'spent the time.' So that one day, I can proudly say that I truly lived my life, by the number of books I have stacked up.
Hashtags
#CommuterReading #ProofOfTime #SarasaGrand #LateThirtiesDailyLife #Output #ChangingSeasons #SelfAxis #Essay #TracesOfLife
