'watercolour path, watercolour path, watercolour path'

My eyesight isn't very good.

At home, I wear glasses.

Outside, I wear contact lenses.

When I take a bath or go to sleep, of course, I wear neither.

At those moments, the world looks a little like the photographs of Uta Barth or Rinko Kawauchi.

The blur. The softness. The way things appear.

I quite like it.

Recently, we held a fashion show in Italy.

Of course, we arrived with more than enough determination and ambition.

But our luggage was packed carefully enough to avoid excess baggage fees.

On the first day, after finishing all the shopping we needed for the show, the staff and I decided to have lunch together.

Since we were in Italy, we thought we should eat pasta or pizza.

So we looked for a place within walking distance and headed there.

On the way, in the middle of absolutely nowhere, I fell over.

Spectacularly.

The kind of fall that would have a giant BAM! filling the entire panel of an American comic book.

The kind of fall that turns your favorite jeans into your favorite distressed jeans.

To make matters worse, one of my contact lenses fell out.

Since they were disposable anyway, I decided to remove the other one and go eat without them.

Of course, all I could think about at first was how much it hurt.

But when the carbonara I ordered arrived...

Was it pasta?

Was it risotto?

Was it a slightly distorted full moon?

Everything was blurred enough that it was hard to tell.

And somehow I found myself thinking:

"This view is nice."

Rather carefree, considering the circumstances.

The show in Italy somehow came to an end.

Whether it ended smoothly or not is another question.

Since I hadn't managed to take a proper break during the New Year holidays, I returned to my hometown at the end of January.

Whenever I go back, I always go out drinking with friends I've known since elementary school.

And whenever we drink, we end up talking about the same things.

"Remember that musician we used to listen to?"

"We've made a lot of things since then, but that thing we made together back then was pretty good."

"I wonder what kind of work he's doing now."

Maybe that's what happens when you get older.

The same phrases come up again and again.

But with close friends, they feel comfortable.

I think small reunions are quite nice.

That night, on my way home, fairly drunk and in a very good mood, a thought suddenly crossed my mind.

In English, a reunion is called an alumni reunion.

But in Japanese, we don't write it as a gathering of classmates.

We write it as a gathering of the "same window."

I thought that was beautiful.

Whether it actually means a gathering of people who once looked at the same scenery through the same window, I don't know.

And somehow, I felt like I shouldn't look it up.

Not knowing seemed better.

Still, I thought it was a beautiful phrase.

I arrived at my local station.

Said goodbye to my old friends.

Let the alcohol carry me home.

Dove into bed.

Curled up in a pose not so different from the knitwear I had thrown on the floor.

And fell asleep.

The next morning, my vision was blurry.

My throat was dry.

To drive out the alcohol that had somehow settled all the way to my fingertips without permission, I decided to walk to the convenience store and buy something to drink.

Still wearing my pajamas.

The store was close.

And this was the town I grew up in.

So I left with my natural eyesight.

I brought my glasses, just in case.

On the way to the convenience store, I walked along the route I used to take to elementary school.

The signboard that was there back then, even though I never knew what kind of shop it belonged to.

The apartment building now standing where an empty lot used to be.

The street sign I looked at and thought, "Wait, what district is this again?"

The boundary between a branch and the few remaining leaves still clinging to it.

Everything was blurred.

Buildings.

Air.

Symbols.

Everything bled together like a watercolor painting.

I thought I might stay in that watercolor a little longer.

So I kept walking.

A little further than necessary.

The wall along the train tracks looked rustier than before.

Or maybe it really was rustier.

I could hardly recognize some of the houses anymore.

New families had moved in.

New lives had begun.

Even blurred.

Even softened.

The town I knew continued to grow old and be born again.

Maybe it was because everything was out of focus.

Maybe it was because everything was bleeding together.

Or maybe it was because I wasn't drunk anymore.

But it felt as if I was walking alongside the version of myself who once looked at these same streets through the same window.

Listening together to the music I loved back then.

I think I enjoyed that walk.

Very much.

I don't know whether nostalgia makes people richer.

Lately, though, I've been thinking about what it means for something to be new.

Working in fashion, it often feels as though we are constantly being asked for something new.

But defining what "new" actually means is surprisingly difficult.

Sometimes I think nobody has managed to put it into words.

Trying to find that newness, I've often adjusted my focus.

Put on what might be called fashion glasses.

Stared as hard as I could.

Most of the time, the prescription was wrong.

And lately I've started wondering:

Maybe people experience newness through the shock of encountering something within a familiar landscape.

Maybe what we're searching for isn't newness itself.

Maybe we're searching for the newness we once felt in the past.

As we grow older, our conversations inevitably return to old stories.

Maybe all we really want is to meet those moments again.

The things that once felt fresh.

The things that once felt surprising.

The things that once felt new.

I've always liked walking.

I've always liked winter.

I've always liked the moon.

I've always liked houses as a motif.

Beer came much later.

But I like that too.

Perhaps what matters is repeating these things that have always flowed through me.

Again. And again. And again. And again.

Repeating a new past.

Creating a nostalgic future. Repeating a new past. Creating a nostalgic future.

Maybe someone will find something new in that vision.

And if even one more person can relate to it, I would be happy.

So I hope you'll take off your glasses for a moment.

And walk once more through a familiar path.

A path that is blurred.

A path that bleeds softly at the edges.

A path you've walked many times before.

A path you carry somewhere inside yourself.

Even when a dry wind blows through it, the blur gives it moisture.

The whistle you hear along the way sounds brighter somehow.

It dances lightly through the air like a sparrow.

Drawing pictures with the wind.

There is something nice about being out of focus.

Not everything needs to be perfectly clear.

Not everything needs to be sharply defined.

I think there is something important about repetition.

As for me—

I'm going to the convenience store. To buy a beer.

I'm going to the convenience store. To buy a beer.