What The Hell Am I Doing Here?

June 10, 2021

Tell me, have you ever had this experience: you walk to an unfamiliar part of town, and realize that this area, that for you is simply a corridor to walk through, is for some people the axle around which their entire life revolves? You get a strange feeling, like they are the ones living, and you are simply a tourist in their world. Suddenly, you wish you could live here, in this authentic part of town, where the shops are filled with real people purchasing materials for their real, daily lives — these daily lives that feel so concrete, and important, despite the fact that you are seeing such a tiny glimpse. These are the real human beings, the ones you've heard about. It’s clear that you don't belong here. You realize that even if you were to move here, you wouldn't belong. Because these people did not come here on purpose. They did not come here to partake in their ideal of a real world; they simply ended up here. They were always here, even when they were somewhere else. If you were to move here, you would always be aware of this fact: that you transplanted yourself here with an ulterior motive. Your desire for an authentic life is exactly what keeps you from having one. And so, you turn around, walk home, and listen to Modest Mouse. "Let's all have another Orange Julius."

My whole life, I've felt like I am intruding no matter where I go. I feel that I am unnaturally forcing myself into a world that everyone else seems to belong to naturally. Nowhere have I felt this more keenly than in Japan, during the brief half-year I spent there.

I was like a child, then. I wandered around as if in a fantasy world. The fantasy was not my fantasy. I don't know whose fantasy it was. Whoever dreamed it up, they certainly had a lot of ideas.

There were maps around, and I'm sure I must have looked at them once or twice, but I never fully grasped where anything was. As I wandered about town, familiar locales seemed to appear out of nowhere. Two disparate paths would turn out to lead to the same place. I would run through a neighbourhood on my way home, and then never see it again. My world was a collection of disconnected locations, surrounded by dark wilderness.

I was like a child. The barbershop I went to seemed the only one in the world. I drew a ticket from the machine, and waited in line for someone to call my number. I explained to the hairdresser, in a halting voice, "上で二センチ半まで切って、横で二センチまで切ってください." The cutting would begin. Occasionally, the hairdresser tried to make conversation. I would answer as well as I could their questions about my school, my classes, and how I was enjoying my stay.

It was a stay. It was a trip. It was a trip disguised as an everyday life, disguised as a trip. I bought groceries from the Kasumi. I bought household goods from the Daiso. But these household goods were temporary, and the groceries were snacks to fill the hours between my pre-planned meals at the cafeteria. When I wasn't at the cafeteria, I ate at restaurants: Saizeriya, Matsuya, Marukuni.

I didn't work, but I had money. I had brought thousands of dollars with me. I had saved the money by working at a drug store back home. It was money that I had earned in exchange for labour. However, as soon as I landed in Japan, this money last all reality. It would fly out of an ATM in the 7/11 in the form of unfamiliar pieces of paper, adorned with a picture of a nondescript man and some indecipherable characters. People asked me for these pieces of paper, and I handed them over. They gave me strange metal objects in return.

I went to school, but it wasn't a real school. The other students, the 'real' students, were working hard, studying, attending lectures, worrying about grades, in a collection of buildings that, as far as I was concerned, were set dressing. We had our containment zone, our International Building. It was a daycare. The homework was kids stuff. No one expected me to learn anything at school; the learning was meant to take place elsewhere.

All this is not to say that I had no concerns. I had many concerns. My entire existence was one giant concern. It was one concern, and that concern was myself.

Am I having a good time? Am I making the most of my time? Am I having enough "experiences"? Am I learning about Japanese culture? Am I actually learning the Japanese language, or simply tricking myself? Am I making a good impression on people? Does that girl like me? More importantly, does that girl like me? What about that girl over there? Will any girl ever like me? Is it even possible for me to be liked?

Does any of this matter?

Trapped within this maelstrom of solipsistic self-reflection, Japan passed me by as scenery. Eventually, I started to hate Japan. I hated Japan because I realized that, through my closed eyes, everything and everywhere looks the same. I hated Japan for being a real place, while willfully ignoring its reality.

I had no real reason to hate Japan. Japan didn't do anything to me. I didn't even live there. I was just there. I could hide away in my room and not even be in Japan anymore. There was nothing connecting me to that world; I could refuse to go to school, or do any of the work, and the worst they could do was send me home. This home always existed somehow both as a familiar comfort and the exact thing I had come to Japan to run away from. I carried with me a strong belief that as soon as I returned home, I would die. But sometimes that didn't seem so bad.

I don't think I learned anything in Japan. I was not prepared to learn. Everything I learned from that trip, I learned during the years I spent reflecting on and analyzing every detail. I made a Bible out of those six months. I treated them with holy reverence. It was a period of great turmoil and change. More happened to me during those six months than the surrounding four years combined. It was all I had.

I was still a child when I returned home. I wasn't even an older child. I was exactly the same child. It was decided long before I ever conceived of going to Japan that I was not going to make it in this world. I don't have the right mindset for success. I am fearful and suspicious. I lack energy and drive. I have two conflicting desires: to run away from the world, and to be accepted by the world. These two desires fight a constant, rage-filled, vengeful war in my mind. They can never be reconciled, and neither can ever win.

I've found a way to run away without moving. As I mature, I trend more and more towards complete stillness. Doing has lost meaning; agency has lost its appeal. My role models are rocks and stones.

I am looking for a way to be accepted without giving or taking. This is why I still write, when everything else has lost meaning. It's the only thing I ever learned how to do. I've never let go of this idea that somehow, somewhere, someone will understand what I'm talking about, if I just keep sending my message out over and over again.

I still feel like I shouldn't be here, and that I shouldn't be doing what I'm doing. The town I grew up in has as much reality to me as the setting of a novel. I walk around the city I live in with the feeling that everyone wants to kill me. (I've almost been run over at the intersection in front of my apartment at least four times.)

I say hi, and I smile, and people smile back. At the store I worked at, customers were happy to see me. However, I felt that if they knew what I was really about, they would disapprove. Occasionally, I would get the question: "Are you in school?" The smile would disappear from my face. "No, I've graduated." An uncomfortable pause. An unspoken question: "So what the hell are you doing here, then?"

An alternate conversation: "So, do you work here full time?" "No, just a few days a week." "Oh, so you have another job?"

I had a customer once insist on continuing such a conversation with me far beyond the natural limit. She was in a wheelchair, and I was helping her pick out fruits. In the end, I had to explain that I was living in a basement suite comfortably off the earnings from 20 hours of work per week. She did not believe me. She asked if my parents paid my rent. She asked me what my other job was, what I did when I wasn't working. I said, "I read books, and I hang out." (Not a great answer, I will admit. I was unprepared for the question.) She said, "I don't know how your parents are okay with that."

Such conversations are the source of my profound guilt for being alive. I don't work as much as anyone. I live off beans and noodles. I've gone so long without buying anything that I don't even know how to spend the money I have. The economy is crumbling, and it's my fault. I'm sorry! Please don't kill me! I tried paying taxes, but the government just sent all the money back.

I feign an utter confidence in the fact that I have chosen a righteous path, but this is a sham. I don't believe in the nobility of wage labour, and yet I feel bad that I quit my useless job. I don't believe in the value of status and wealth, and yet I feel like I'm getting off easy by skipping out on the race. I don't believe in the primacy of doing, and yet I'm restless. I've long wished someone would tell me how to live my life, but I become indignant when anyone tries.

I'm hopelessly cynical in conversation, but an unkillable optimism keeps me alive. I believe in a world in which we can all prosper and be fulfilled. I believe we can destroy everything that keeps us anxious and ashamed. I believe we can eradicate greed and destruction. I believe that I am righteous and virtuous! God damn it, I have to! How else am I supposed to keep this up!?