A World Abandoned

The other day I was roaming Kyoto as a punctual and unoriginal tourist ought to do, to check off another list handed down to me from… from I’m not sure who.

Out of the station and into the fray so, half the time, the masses of bodies confused and for the rest of the day I wasn’t sure which part of Kyoto I was in, or going, or why it dips between absolute suburban silence to wide roads and more tourists aligned with a little plushie hung on a metal stick as, indeed, a homing device. For all other lost souls in their guided expedition. Perhaps they convened and agreed they’d best notice a fluffy penguin before embarking.

The variation in delivering the informational goods, whether a twined megaphone stuck out, hugging a cheek and directed toward the ducklings of the back — the more preferable, if I were ever to guide, would be the concentrated and soft whisper that beamed into each set of headphones from the wide-eyed and vaguely going through the motions. Is it an app they install on their phone? Reflecting upon all of the museums I’ve visited, I’ve conceded such funnels of textual draping upon the next scene, to the next, doesn’t do much for me. I’d rather look at the branches over the path. Leaves gathered. Yes, let me try to peek into God’s domain threaded between the bridges.

I gave up on some of the main attractions, inevitably, and felt rather self conscious taking any photos seeing as everyone ahead took all of the photos already. But at least I tried to shuffle along, for a bit, in that long line of gates. And then somehow one ends up at the apex, past the central commercial streets selling matcha & sesame ice cream. The path never seemed clear, and maybe that’s a good thing.

Though while I stumbled at best within the sardine lines and past the kimono fittings sometimes, beyond the bush, I saw an empty street. Either dead end or leading to nowhere. Something felt wrong.

Beyond some of the plaques, sporting some early 1200s labeling, others reconstructed and a pagoda perfectly stranded, the leaves danced ahead in the cement pockets devoid of tourists. I couldn’t figure out why the air felt thin despite five meters and there’s another selfie stick in a long line of people for the city’s penultimate observation backdrop. You can always AI edit out all of the undesirables is what was telepathically sent to me, initiated by a shared 0.5 second eye-contact amidst the flurry of reenacting a princess drama for the timelines.

Foliage towering to the left, long winding paths as a mountain pass, I began to think about the otaku, and then about Steam™, or about World of Warcraft and, staring down another spotless street, I could no longer ignore the feminine force overtaking the city, culminated into another kimono pose over the stone slim-curved bridge.

It’s not that Kyoto is “fossilized”, it was more of a portal to wonder why the world has been in physical stasis for many years. Teleport back to the 90s and you couldn’t immediately spot the difference in clothing, buildings. But I guess with the introduction of the computer we shifted course.

I realized most men have departed this world.

Things seem to still function… vaguely. The streets are kept clean, and the silent workers walk back and forth between the next construction project. But when I looked down those streets of silence I could see the dotted outline of all the men that would’ve been there. Now they’re in their room.

I started to wonder why. Why did we have such intricate designs, buildings, wars as well, lively polis and speaking and dreaming and now most men close the door while keeping the outside preserved in amber? One could come up with a lot of different reasons and angles, but nothing seems absolutely definite to me. Someone then whispered to me, “The juice isn’t worth the squeeze.”

All I know is that, as I sauntered along the central river park, inhaling the silence, it’s best to leave it up for debate. I explained all of this to the dotted outlines walking beside me, and I waved over to the dotted commune and dots of sparks in illusory fire. My ears started to bleed.

Ah, yes, the dotted festival was starting, and with each step my feet broke in clever ways. The ground opened up, and I attended as all men did: my desk greeted me and so blinked the cursor for my small outpost.

The light was searing my bunker of soil. Dragging by arms I crawled up to the window sill and flicked the curtains over. In that pure darkness the walls dissolved and glimmers of desk-side lamps, in every direction, perhaps a billion, twinkled in unison. A galaxy of hidden men.

At last, it was here, Kyoto no longer. I crawled back to my desk, before my elbows snapped. It was fine; I didn’t need to move anymore.

One could hear the park ranger padding the soil above.