I remembered a roar that was not only intense but also so deep.
Something like a magnetic field, which was soft and light like a veil, arising from the thunderbolt surrounded me.
No sooner had I seen a flash than the sound roaring heavily caught me on the whole body.
The first thunderstorm of the season was a sign telling us winter had arrived, bringing snow at a region including my hometown.
I had started to write a story in such a stormy night.
It was the beginning of winter more than 10 years ago.
âIf I write about my own memory thoroughly, it may continue to exist as a thing that is more universal, exceeding mere personal memory. Itâll be summoned by something like a god of the story. If many diminutive words I’ve written link each other, form a sequence, and get weight slightly, they may stand on their own feet and start to walk by themselves toward somewhere; they might be infused with eternal life at the place that even I cannot control. Then, has such a thing actually happened? Or, is it nothing but my own megalomania?
I am always writing about the things related with him.
For instance, I feel like that the air never flows but completely stops when he stops talking. At such time, he used to be surrounded by tense air, which is peculiar to him. Or, I used to feel his breathing, which is so calm.
But, is it no more than a thing like a behavior that a collecting mania does?
Am I doing it as if pinning insects on a board of collection display case, hoping to preserve them forever?
In other words, do I hope to collect and store my memory related with him because of just a fetish? He is the very ‘That man’ that I am always writing about. I’ve been describing him in my novel, my essay, and so on.
Well, I used to like his voice, but also used to like the air surrounding him while he didnât say anything. No, I like not only them but also everything of him.
I do like everything too much and donât want to let him go.â
Not only that, I was eager to be always with him, to always stare at him, to always feel him, and to always touch him. Completely adoring him, I seemed to have somewhat lost my mind.
Besides, I had used to like his long breath and the silence that appeared after he had paused suddenly.
On top of that, if I took a long view, the time we had spent together actually was like a split second.
âBut, why do I eagerly try to firmly preserve and fix this memory that I’ve certainly had the relationship with him?
I suppose that all people, who’ve gotten such an important thing, must be confused, because they don’t know how to deal with it.
At last, they will end up by doing the same as me: they will try to preserve it by any means, too.
Some people might compose poetry, others might write music. In my case, it has been to write a story.
Is that because I am afraid to forget those memories?
No. The more I lose the details of my memory, the more a dense atmosphere in my memory overwhelms me so far as to torment me.
I cannot recall any small parts of them anymore, but the things that have made me fascinated will be revived more vividly.
For example, the profoundness of his gentle gaze, the atmosphere created by his voice that has been transmitted with vibration, the moisture and the fever that have been brought by his voice and cover my ears, and so on.
At last, the stories Iâm writing will shake hands with this real world somewhere someday.
Even my memories about things that have happened really don’t exist anymore, and are invisible, intangible, and immaterial. Therefore, are there any differences between my memory and fictional stories?
Similarly, even though this real world was supposed to exist this moment, how can we explain this real world is more stable than fictional stories and our memories?
Tales are not inferior to the real world just because tales are just things that have been made up.
If there are the same things as the feeling, the moisture, and the fever that have been brought when âThat manâ whispered my name, it is the same as he calls my name this moment.â
Akihiko called her name before he knew it.
All the lights of the cabin had been turned off, Akihiko should have been browsing a tablet connected to the inflight wi-fi, relying on a faint reading lamp.
But he murmured her name absent-mindedly, and his voice sounded unexpectedly.
A cabin attendant talked to Akihiko because she thought that he’d asked her something.
Although it was dark in the cabin, Akihiko could see that the attendant was a neat, beautiful woman and was adequate to Asian airlines that generally had a good reputation about the quality of their cabin attendants.
He noticed a sweet fragrance floating from her glossy-black, well-combed hair, and honestly told her that he had only told himself in a loud voice unintentionally.