A letter (手紙) – piano rendition | Original composition by Yukie Nishimura (西村由紀江)
"There are no foreign lands. It is the traveler only who is foreign." — Robert Louis Stevenson, The Silverado Squatters (1883)
The days continue without pause. Day breaks; kettles whistle, the streets surge with the morning rush, and offices fill as the city wakes. Amid the hustle and bustle, hours pass in a blur until the last glow of day slips away. Neon signs flicker to life, night markets erupt into a chorus of smells and sounds, and the bars and eateries swell with boisterous energy. Gradually, the streets begin to empty as the moon climbs higher into the night sky. Lights dim, the final stalls close, and a quietness falls over the city again. Until tomorrow’s sunrise.
Day after day, the traveler earnestly greets familiar faces while trying to reach new ones. Attempts to connect, to contribute, to belong are usually met with friendly acknowledgement and polite support, sometimes even warmth, but the space between persists. Connections remain partial and often fleeting, an unbridged distance that is more felt than spoken.
Home, too, begins to feel foreign. Somewhat familiar but vaguely distant as threads fray with time and absence. Friends reach out—check in, send messages, ask about plans—yet the distance is real. There is a limit to what they can do, a limit to what can be said across screens and time zones. The intervals between replies lengthen. Exchanges become more tentative. The easy fluency once found in shared words fades, replaced by the sense that it is too hard to know where to begin, or what to say. Then there is the convenient belief that a fuller conversation can take place at a later time, in person—except that later may be months away. Perhaps years.
"To be rooted is perhaps the most important and least recognized need of the human soul." — Simone Weil, The Need for Roots (1949)
A faint, almost tannic taste rises in the traveler’s throat. Even the reflection looking back from the cold glass window seems barely recognizable. Perhaps this is the inevitable price of making this choice, of embarking on this journey. A guest ever in a foreign city; increasingly a stranger to the one that was once home. To be there, but not really. To always be just on the outside, no longer sure where one belongs anymore. If anywhere at all.
From the Nocturnal Notes: Away...Elsewhere... series by Jacquie T.
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