At the Tokyo Metropolitan Observatory, I looked down at the hundreds of buildings that spread farther than my mind could comprehend. I stood alone with families and couples taking photos beside me as my thoughts wandered to the sort of lives the people in those buildings led. I was people watching from above, feeling like a bird who had always wanted to be human.
In that moment, my chest was struck with a familiar chord of an instrument I could not play, but loved dearly. There was a young person who wore a black trench coat that covered his frame, making the deep blonde strands of his hair standout. His body rocked back and forth in tune with the keys he played on the piano, a motion that was calculated yet natural. Raw talent. I watched people of all sorts of ages and backgrounds slowly gather around him, drawn together by a gorgeous arrangement. Soon, I too followed the music that wafted throughout the observatory and stood there, behind the crowd, with my eyes closed and smiled wide.
It was a song from the Japanese band backnumber but I couldn’t put my finger on the name of it (I looked it up later, however, the song was "Happy End". Definitely recommend for the feels). Nonetheless, I felt every emotion of the composition flow through me, making my heart ache at the sadness of the notes.
What a human thing it is. To not understand, but to love anyways.
My friend tapped me on the shoulder and pointed excitedly at the sky. We were in the countryside of Japan, less cars, less people, more connection to the nature we shared a space with. A visible coexistence. The moon shone boldly in the middle of the night sky, proudly being the only cosmic body in sight. This would be a rare sight in Tokyo, whose covered land was carefully planned by architects and sky filled with earthquake proof towers that met the sun at its base.
It was a full moon that night, the symbol of new beginnings.
I watched as my friends hurriedly whipped out their phone cameras in hopes of doing the moon justice, though we all knew deep down it would be difficult to capture. Some things are just meant to be felt instead.
I chose to trail behind, listening to bursts of laughter and my friends jousting each other around about something funny one of them said. Despite not hearing the joke, the edges of my lips perked up too.
Lifting my Sony camera, I looked through the lens: a perfect circle, standing in the middle of parted clouds, moonlight shining on blackened tile rooftops.
It seemed like the moon was gazing at me.
What a different feeling it was— rather than being the watcher amongst buildings at one of the highest points of the nation's capital, I was a tiny speck in a quiet Nara neighborhood being guided home.
Click.
I ran to meet the rest of the group and took one last look at the moon with my naked eye, its porcelain skin twinkled for a split second as if to say goodbye, before I promptly ducked into the bus.
Youth is the longest time of your life until you are out of it.
About 5 minutes away from Aqua City Mall, was a beach that sat in front of Rainbow Bridge.
As my footsteps slowed due to the sand pooling around my feet, I was reminded of home. But my heart knew we were somewhere else. I suddenly found myself drawn to the group of high schoolers squealing as they pretended to push their friend into the water. They erupted into laughter as one of the boys accidentally fell inside and chased their friends in feign anger. His words were of annoyance, but the grin plastered on his face was one of undeniable youth. Right next to them were four girls who finished propping up their camera on the sand and hurriedly got into position, holding golden “2023” balloons that hid their faces. They counted to three and jumped in unison. When they huddled together to check on their photo, the girls hugged in glee at an undoubtedly successful jump frame.
It finally clicked in my mind that this was a high school 3rd year trip— for them, that meant graduation was near. I looked back at my friends who took turns taking photos of each other, peace signs and toothy grins that turned their cheeks into apples.
What I felt in that moment could only be described as 侘び寂び(wabisabi).
The acceptance that moments are fleeting, the celebration of the flow of life.
The TOMODACHI program was a one week trip filled with countless activities that were stored in my memory. There were large moments of conversations that ran a mile a minute, there were smaller moments with nothing but collective warm breath against the cold spring air.
My advice when traveling, is to sit back and look for moments of 小確幸 because those are the moments you keep for a rainy day.
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