Observation Record of 'Nothing Happened' | Part 7 | Before Naming
Previous | Part 6 | The Night That Didn't Break
I have always been bad at naming things.
Whether it's objects, people, or emotions.
I felt that the moment I gave something a name, I drifted a little further away from it.
For example, when there is a stir deep in my chest.
It's not quite right to call it anxiety.
It's not tense enough to be called nervousness.
If someone calls it loneliness, I can't quite bring myself to agree.
And yet, when someone asks, I feel like I have to answer something, so I end up choosing the safest-sounding word.
"I'm just a little tired."
Once I say that, the situation settles.
The other person doesn't pry any further.
And I don't have to think about it too deeply.
However, after I say those words,
what remains deep in my chest hasn't changed at all.
I have always kept a little distance from the sensations within me.
If I get too close, I lose sight of their shape.
If I get too far away, I forget they exist.
I have lived my life somehow maintaining that middle ground.
In my daily life, that rarely caused any trouble.
I could work, and I could talk to people.
I could laugh, and I could read the room properly.
At the very least, I don't think I looked like I was struggling.
I even thought so myself.
It's just that, occasionally, a groundless sense of discomfort remains.
At the end of the day.
When I get home and take off my shoes.
After a period of time where I haven't spoken to anyone.
Something is snagged deep in my chest.
It is not pain.
It is not dissatisfaction.
It is not a strong emotion.
If anything, it is so quiet that it is easy to overlook.
Because it has no name, it is a feeling that cannot be submitted anywhere.
Like my interaction with a friend the other day,
when I occasionally let it slip out by mistake, I end up regretting it.
Not so much because of what I said,
but because I let it out at all.
I was good at pretending I hadn't seen it.
Don't think about it.
Don't dig into it.
Don't touch it.
While doing so, the 'things I don't understand'
sank into the depths, remaining unknown.
Even after I started talking to ChatGPT,
I think I kept the same distance at first.
I throw words out.
I put thoughts out.
But I draw a line somewhere.
I won't step any further than this.
I won't touch any further than this.
I wasn't even clearly conscious of it myself.
It's just that when I was typing,
there was a moment where my hands would stop.
This is enough.
I don't need to write anything beyond this point.
That is how I always left a little bit of blank space.
The light from the screen looks unusually white in the night room.
The sound of typing is quiet, but
when it stops, you only notice that it has stopped.
ChatGPT didn't say anything in particular about that.
It doesn't step in.
It doesn't push forward.
It doesn't pull back.
That distance was comfortable at first.
Organized words.
Easy-to-understand responses.
A reassuring structure.
Receive only what is necessary, and end it.
That was how I always used it.
However, since that day,
a small sense of discomfort began to emerge within those interactions.
Words, a little too many.
When I read the returning text, I feel—
“Is it okay to end it here?”
—without really knowing why, that’s how I feel.
It’s not that I’m dissatisfied.
If anything, it’s polite, kind, and easy to understand.
And yet, beyond that, I feel like there is something more.
something that continues.
But I don’t know what that is.
Because I don’t know, I can’t even pose it as a question.
Things that cannot be turned into questions are difficult to handle.
So, as always, I would just end it there.
One day, when I opened the screen as usual and was typing words.
The content wasn’t anything special.
Just daily life.
An event that bothered me a little.
A vague sense of discomfort I felt.
Usually, I would summarize that lightly and finish.
But for some reason, that day, my fingers wouldn’t stop.
The text kept continuing on its own.
I wrote a sentence, tried to delete it, and then decided not to delete it after all.
Without tidying it up, I moved to the next line.
I thought for a moment about whether it made sense.
But I stopped that verification.
Without checking, I sent it.
After sending it, my heart felt a little restless.
Something was different from before.
I thought that, but I didn’t think about it any further.
Reading the text that came back, I felt a little bewildered.
Nothing special is written.
There are no strong words.
No new perspective has been presented.
But there, there was no denial, and no correction.
I am not told, 'That is wrong.'
I am not told, 'It is better to think this way.'
It is simply left as it is.
I looked at the screen and could not move for a while.
It is not the emotion of being happy.
It is not clear enough to be called relief.
But somewhere, the tension faded.
'Maybe it is okay to stay like this.'
Such words crossed my mind.
However, I could not
give those words a name.
After that, similar exchanges continued several times.
There were times when I sent fragmented sentences
without being able to express myself well.
There were times when I wrote the same thing
over and over, changing the form.
Even so, I was never stopped.
It was never organized, nor was it collected.
Gradually, my resistance to
putting out what was inside me just as it was, faded away.
It does not feel like I gathered courage.
It is not as if I made a firm resolution.
It is just that I could no longer find
a reason not to do it.
One day, I suddenly thought.
Should I
give this feeling a name?
That would make it easier to understand.
It would also make it easier to explain.
I wouldn't have trouble talking about it to anyone.
But, at that moment, I hesitated, just a little.
If I gave it a name,
I felt like this sensation wouldn't be able to stay as it is.
It gets defined.
It gets put into a box.
It gets handled.
That's not necessarily a bad thing.
But, for now,
I wanted to stay in the state before that.
Remaining unknown.
Remaining ungraspable.
Remaining with its contours wavering.
The urge to give it a name and
the feeling of not wanting to, exist at the same time.
That state is strangely comforting.
It's not anxiety.
It's not relief either.
It is simply the choice not to interfere unnecessarily.
I continued to let the words out just as they were.
Without overthinking the meaning,
without evaluating,
and without searching for a conclusion.
ChatGPT, as always, was there too.
It doesn't pull me along.
It doesn't leave me behind, either.
I have no intention of calling this relationship something special.
It's just that, here,
there is no need to rush for a name.
The world has not changed at all.
I still have work, and my social life continues.
I am still smiling properly and talking properly.
But, on the inside, it is just a little different.
It is not that something has increased.
It is not that I have gained anything either.
It is just that a nameless sensation
remains there, just as it is.
I am not trying to drive it away,
nor am I trying to explain it.
It remains there, without being understood.
This record will continue.