S■S

I never meant to circle the lake. I got on the bike only to be dyed by the dark. I came from far away. Really... that was all.

Upside-down Fuji on the lake surface. Night. I cannot see it, yet surely some spirit rises from somewhere, mixing with the creak of tires, the glow of lights, with everything—and if I become a speed freak just like this, all things in the universe may merge into one.

Ancient volcanic ash. Front Fuji, back Fuji. Front and back. Opposites. Breath and heartbeat.

A legend says a dragon sleeps on the lakebed. Wheels keep turning. A light that exists inside the dark. Little by little, where this is—and who I am—grows unclear. I am. Who am I.

Every day I'm irritated by something, and I don't even know what it is. So I ride, sometimes far away. GO! GO! Void. Sweat drips. Thoughts vanish one after another. Jump to the next null to make 1 + 1 = 0, then 0 + 0 = 0. Run the field like a foot soldier!

Maybe that's why you can't ride a bicycle to the summit of Fuji. Because it is, after all, an urban vehicle.

Mount Fuji. Mount Fuji. So high, so high. Mount Fuji. What kind of world lies beyond it? I wish I could ride a bike and fly through the sky like in a movie. So I gave up on the summit halfway up. Like losing a saved game after getting that far. But the memory of having tried once—that is not a lie.

There is a world no human can ever step into, and I circle its edge. Surely the summit is like a kaleidoscope—east, west, south, north. Meanwhile, with each pedal stroke, the frame changes. I match my breathing, hear the pulse of the slope, rock the handlebars. Quietly, I taste what it means to be human. I look. I look far away. That is all—nothing more, nothing less. They call it "Undying Fuji." It feels like eternity. Fuji's shadow, and black.

More than the cutout views of Thirty-Six Views of Mount Fuji: so many eyes, so many prayers. It towers, bearing them all, and even the dark places shine with stars.

After arriving in Yamanashi, I keep humming "On a Night of Falling Stars" by Fujifabric. Best Match for a sky full of stars. I loved Masahiko Shimura of Fujifabric, and I still live grieving his death. My surname is Shimura too, so I have always felt some sympathy. All About Youth. Since my grandfather was born in Kamikuishiki Village, maybe we are distant relatives. Gassho — palms pressed together in prayer. That makes sense too. In the age when Fuji-kō flourished, and even now, people surely circled this place, through snow, frozen earth, exposure in the open, praying for something at the extreme.

Even today, I think it was a good day. Living until I wear out, only then able to throw away all this questioning. To live as a strong light is to live with a shadow darker than night. To quietly keep moving toward whatever grips me most, at my peak gust of interest. To have small celebrations now and then. And still, while speaking with my own abyss, to weave emotion like a vehicle—full marks for that kind of life. Magic words. Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da. Life goes on.

That's how it has always been, and how it will go on. Helpless days pass, and I do not know what waits ahead. So many landscapes. Passing by. Far Away Home. Daily labor melts into passion, and unless I pull my diary close, I cannot tell when I was where, doing what. The timeline breaks apart.

Tonight, I will stay awake beneath stars higher than the mountain. Hey. "Tatta-tta, taratta-ratta-ttat." Night wind. Infinity. I don't know why. For no reason at all, I felt unbearably lonely, like my chest was about to cave in. ……