Two Evening Tableaus of Enlightenment

Tuesday was a good day. There was this moment, when I had just left the library and it was maybe eight in the evening, coming down the mountainside towards the station. Everything was so peaceful, and I ended up in this nameless noodle shop that could fit maybe ten people and the kanji for food were so difficult that I ended up asking for the 500 yen meal and sat, reading, while the young chef bustled and on the television behind me the Dragons were batting against the BayStars.

It had been a good day. I'd been to the gym, something I hadn't done in forever; I'd finished that story for the Ubyssey, the one about recycled pens that I'd been sitting on for two weeks; I'd talked with people from far away; I'd received some news from home, somewhat bitter sweet.

As I came down the mountainside I caught a view of the city by night, the horizon afire with the light of a million little chakras.



There was this moment, maybe it was two days after I had arrived, and I had just had dinner and my head throbbed from this damn language I was trying to learn how to speak and understand and I dragged myself upstairs and said goodnight to my mother and threw myself onto my bed still in my clothes and mumbled, loudly, into my pillow, "holy crap. I can speak Japanese."