How many years are left?
How many years are left?
As spring arrives and the cherry blossoms begin to bloom, festivals celebrating them pop up simultaneously all across Japan, drawing crowds of people. But this year, for some reason, I didn’t have the energy to attend any of those festivals.
Instead, I went to a spot I often pass by during work—a wide-open park-like area where large cherry trees were in full bloom. There were no signs of the usual festival crowds. Only an elderly couple and myself were there. Festival or not, the beauty of cherry blossoms doesn’t change; there’s no hierarchy between them.
That thought made me feel like I had stumbled upon a quiet little bargain. Whenever I find a place with few or no people, I feel a small joy—as if I’ve discovered a place just for myself. At the same time, when I encounter these seasonal moments—like seeing cherry blossoms or sensing the arrival of spring—I’ve started to wonder:
How many more times will I get to see this?
No one really knows, of course, but what’s certain is that with each passing year, I’ve spent one more. The events that mark the seasons always bring a sense of anticipation, but precisely because of that, I feel a touch of loneliness when they pass. The joy of looking forward always carries the shadow of its own ending.
It’s been about ten years since I graduated from junior high school.
In my mind, time only starts to feel vivid from high school onward.
Of course, I still have memories from elementary and junior high, but I can’t place them on a clear timeline. Even when I try to recall them, I don’t feel a concrete sense of time attached to those years.
But the ten years since entering high school—graduating from university and spending a few years working as a member of society—those years, for better or worse, have left me with a tangible sense of the passage of time.
And so, a certain thought keeps coming back to me:
“If I repeat this span of time n more times, how old will I be then?”
The ability to measure time is convenient, but it also brings with it a quiet but undeniable sense of fear and unease.
No matter how much I worry or hesitate, time doesn’t stop for me. It just keeps moving forward.
Still, whenever I encounter something that reminds me of the changing seasons, this feeling—this awareness—resurfaces.
I wonder: will even this kind of anxiety be eventually resolved by the passing of time itself?
