This isn't just an entry; it's the beginning of a long-held wish.
I've wanted to capture the fleeting moments of my life in the enduring language of the digital world.
Why?
Perhaps it's a fundamental human need: to leave a trace, to assert one's presence against the vastness. To declare, simply and profoundly, that I, a consciousness, existed within this immense, silent architecture of ones and zeros.
A simple, digital footprint affirming: I was here.
So, why does this digital journey begin today? What urge, what quiet motivation, has finally prompted this first entry? Before I fully reveal the why of this very moment, allow me to draw back the curtain on the earliest chapters of this life.
I arrived on 16th of the third month in the year 1987 , just past midnight on a Monday. My mother gave birth to me in the intimate setting of our home in Los Baños, Laguna—a natural, unhurried entrance, directly into the heart of family, untouched by sterile walls. I was the only boy, embraced and shaped by a rich tapestry of sisters: four guiding elders, and later, the joyful energy of two younger twins.
The canvas of my childhood memories is vibrant with unadulterated happiness. It was, indeed, a blessing to be a child of that era – free from screens, steeped in pure creativity and physical games, always exploring the world outdoors. A foundation of boundless joy that still resonates. But the full, sun-drenched stories of those days – the adventures and discoveries – shall await their turn, richer promising tales in future entries. Something, then, to truly look forward to.
Today, I met someone whose spirit touched with a vast, almost forgotten truth.
My soulmate, perhaps, from a life woven into the fabric of time.
I remember a dedication so absolute, a love so pure, it sought nothing but her happiness.
And to have given so wholly, to have known that complete devotion, is a joy beyond words—a cherished experience I carry within me.
The clock neared noon as I arrived at Kamiyacho Station, a quiet preparation building. She'd asked me to wait at Azabudai Hills' entrance, a familiar landmark. A short delay meant a brief, reflective stroll through the new space, unknowingly preparing me for the gravity of what was to come.
Back at TeamLab, our meeting spot, after six long years, I finally saw her as I came down the escalator. The way she searched for me will forever define that moment. It was the look of pure, agonizing concern, like someone scanning frantically for their beloved missing dog – a desperate, unconditional search for something deeply cherished. such intense seeking, was a revelation. I am eternally grateful that someone would search for my poor self with that depth of unwavering care.
When she finally saw me, unrestrained laughter broke the six-year silence – a laughter born of relief and deep, familiar joy. She was unchanged, the same vibrant spirit, the same unique giggle I remembered from Tachikawa. Inside TeamLab's dazzling chaos, the true art was her presence. The luminouss projection blurred; my gaze kept finding her, every flicker of memory pressing back. Thankfully, the sheer beauty around us offered a welcome distraction from the rush of what if's and what has been.
Then, amidst the light, a shadow fell. I learned of her mother's passing, a truth that struck me with sharp regret. The thought that she had needed a listening ear, a quiet space to release her sorrow, and I had been absent – choosing a lie of busyness over true presence – gnawed at me. Her casual mention of our missed art gallery meeting two years prior, though delivered as a joke, carried the sting of half-meant truth, leaving a heavy weight of emotion to me.
We talked a lot really this day. Time fleeing so fast. We also drank tea inside the TeamLab and there she asked if i already married. I told her the truth that i'll be getting married this year. And I am really grateful that she congratulate me so open heartedly. We shared a lot of laugh, stories with co-workers, places we've been to in Japan and Philippines, experiences living abroad, possibly theorists like earthquake this coming July 5th, earthquakes, why rice is takai in Japan, me serving in Christian church, how I started going out with my fiancée, her life as farmer, as a museum attendees, how she clean the protector glass in the museum like she enter the glass protector and wipe it clean, how is she as a vegetable store coordinator, how she do a lot of part-time jobs, praising each other success, talking about foods, sitting inside the azabudai lobby building, looking for available seats, how she told the stories of reason of her mom's death, Eri living in Kyoto, drinking arabica coffee outside freezing while i always saying its daijoubu, To see her wear her mother's brown jacket, a piece of inherited warmth, almost brought tears to my eyes. Her authenticity, her grounded spirit, and that radiant joy – they remained, unmarred by the years, just as I remembered.
As 5:37 PM arrived, we rose from the Azabudai lobby sofa, the strong wind outside mirroring the tumultuous emotions within, ripping the water, swaying the trees under a darkening sky. Every shared story, every spoken word, was now an indelible part of me. We walked towards Kamiyacho platform 2, but the natural path of our journey diverged. Though my train was opposite, I found myself drawn to hers, a silent reluctance to sever the connection, riding with her towards Kita-Senju.
On that train, as the minutes ticked by, I quiet offered truths: about my fiancée, her faith, my own. And then, her hesitant question: "Did you block me on Facebook?" I explained my deactivation, a true answer to a question steeped in unspoken history. As her station neared, a bittersweet farewell began. "Thank you," "Be safe," "Be healthy always" – words exchanged before she opened her arms wide. The hug was fierce, an embrace that felt like a profound, final punctuation mark, a silent acknowledgment that this might be our last meet.
Then, as the train began its slow, careful pull away, I saw it again: the familiar, tear-filled gaze, the hand waving, fading into the distance. And I felt it all, crashing back over me, the bittersweet ache of a profound goodbye.
