First Morning Pages
I like this paper, I like this bic pen. I like foreign stationery, not only foreign but also наши, and not only stationery, but also every kind of tool. Tools that no one pays attention to, no one cares about, just tools that are used without care.
The texture of this paper is very soft, and the colors of the lines are soft too. It’s a softness that seems to accept everything. Even the ball at the tip of the pen is soft.
Why is this paper so приятна for me? Why is it so kind to me? This paper is very modest, its lines are very thin, narrow and pale. This paper is not shiny, not that brilliant white, not this shiny, not that slippery, I like these pieces of paper, не отталкивающие, а все принимающие.
I’m really drawn to things like that now. The pink line on the left is so やわらかでやさしい. Who designed this paper? Who designed this pen? The names of that person or those people are unknown, but the designer definitely knows “толк”. This paper was once wood…
My writing hand stopped, my writing hand stopped… I’m trying to write something interesting. I’m trying to come up with something interesting. To surprise other people?
I like this paper. I’ve come across this one and only piece of paper once in my life. I feel sorry for this paper. You were born and going to die only accepting my silly games, my pointless tweets. You were full of dreams when you were born blank with nothing, but you have to end your life with this messy, worm-like scribble. You’ll be thrown in the trash bin after this, then burned to ashes. And then what?
Once you were a tree, before that you were a sprout, before that you were a seed, before that you were a fruit, before that you were a tree again, and what before that? You had repeated that tree life, but then suddenly, that life was cut and sliced and soaked in chemicals and turned into paper. And then it was transported, and after a long journey, you met with me. We met. But what about me?
Do I have to write now? Do I need to write letters on you now? Why? Because it’s practice? Yes, it’s just practice, practice of writing. But for this paper, this was real life! This was its only chance to live as paper… Recycle? Yes… maybe it’s a good idea;)
I love you so much and feel so sorry for you. Thank you for accepting me, all of me, as I am. I know I’m feeling very down right now. Maybe that’s why I feel so grateful for things that other people don’t mind、 that other people don’t care about. Yes, you’re just a piece of paper, a disposable piece of paper among so many others. Nothing more, nothing less. But I like the feel of your surface, your color, your subtle appearance, your understated design, your paleness, your thinness, your softness, your lightness, your quietness, your gentleness, your broadness, your emptiness, your calmness, your simplicity and your fragility. ひとひらの紙の儚さに心慰められたとしたら、それは紙以上のものと出会えたということ。
Do I think I’m great that I can notice things that other people don’t notice? Maybe it’s because I’m in that state of mind right now that I notice these tiny things. I’m so glad I met you. I could meet you because I was feeling down. If I wasn’t depressed, I couldn’t have met you. So maybe it’s also a good thing to be down.
I Remember
I remember when my first dog died. I remember her last heartbeat. I remember when my husband’s mother died. I remember how her son grieved, though his face was neat.
I remember when my beloved great-aunt died. I remember the last phone call before she passed. I remember when my father died. I remember how he came back to me after he left.
I remember when my grandmother in Morioka died. I remember where I was, and how thoughtless I was then. I remember when my husband’s father died. I remember what I wore, and how foolish I was then.
I remember when my grandmother in Koshigaya died. I remember how small I was and how my thoughts amaze. I remember when my first cat died. I remember his last gaze.
I remember… Why do I remember only the sad things, not the happy ones? I don’t want to remember anymore — that piercing pain, that bottomless ache. I don’t want to remember, but I don’t want to forget. I don’t want to relive, but I want to remember. I don’t want to remember, but I want to remember, passing by gravestone to gravestone, of my memory, of my life, from milestone to milestone.
* * *
People say to me: not to think too much about those on that side, but to think of the ones on this side. Not to focus on those who have left, but on those who now before me stand.
Stay in the present, not in the past!
I say to them: When almost half of those who were closest to me have gone to that side — and not only humans — those with whom I could speak without caution, suspicion, or reservation, those who loved me without intention, condition, or compensation, simply for being me –, that side has become familiar to me, and will become even more familiar to me. The boundary between this side and that one is slowly fadinSdZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzsdzsdd
Eeh! Don’t step on my keyboard!! I know, I know — it’s time for your meal!
Craaaash!! “Oh my gooooood!!” …hmmm, looks like a disaster has occurred in the kitchen…
I complain: Reality won’t let me go.
People say to me: You’re just savoring the memory of death — because it’s too sweet to refuse. You just can’t face the sweetness of reality — because it’s too bitter to lose.
Stay in the present, not in the past!
Tae Aiba is a multilingual translator. While her life has moved across languages and cities, her first original pieces turn inward, tracing a journey through memory and interior landscapes.