Canon's Diary

Saturday, August 30, 2025. For lunch, I had soba with cabbage, carrots, and pork. Lately, I’ve been drawn to soba made entirely from buckwheat flour. Its flavor is rich, its texture slightly dry at first, yet springy and chewy at the core. I also enjoy the simple pleasure of finishing the meal with soba-yu, the warm water in which the noodles were boiled.

Though it was midday, I kept the curtains drawn. Scaffolding had been set up around the condominium for exterior work, and from time to time workers passed right by my window. My apartment is on the sixth floor. I can imagine how hard their job must be, but the sense of weekend freedom feels diminished.

Inside, the room was dim, a contrast to the blazing sun outside. A fan whirred gently, sending a soft breeze from my right. On impulse, I ground some coffee beans and brewed a pot. The grinder, once an experiment, has quietly become part of my household. The rich aroma filled the air. In this way, I passed a quiet afternoon.

As I leaned back in my chair, my thoughts began to drift. I found myself looking back at the past. My illness has settled now, but the years from twenty to forty-five were, for me, a “lost twenty-five years.” Outwardly, I lived in different places, met many people, and even married. Yet it felt as if I were walking through fog, always weighed down by invisible chains that made life heavy and difficult. Putting that sensation into words is never easy.

I remember lying down in the company infirmary during work hours. I remember slipping away to the hospital for garlic infusions after sleepless nights left me too exhausted to function. I remember the hallucinations that overtook me, the cruel treatment I endured from colleagues and superiors. The bitter memories seem endless.

Now that I am almost back to normal, I want all the more to savor life. I am content with my current work. My tennis has slowed a little with age, yet I still feel able to play competitively. My father’s guitar rests always at my side. I want to try new recipes, too. At the same time, I must remember to rest when my body demands it—pushing myself too far has always been my flaw.

Toward evening, when the workers had disappeared from view, I opened the curtains. The clouds in the sky were dyed orange by the glow of the setting sun. For dinner, I had chop suey bought earlier at the supermarket, with a spicy Korean glass-noodle soup. Tonight, I have a tennis lesson at eight. I need to repeat the service motion I’ve been taught, and there’s a new backhand swing I want to experiment with. These simple moments, more than anything, bring me a quiet sense of peace.