Oblivion

脳梅毒受験日記 第五章― Oblivion(消失)

忘却は、救済ではなかった。

 むしろ、それは最後に残された刑罰に近かった。

 あれほど強烈だったはずの記憶が、少しずつ輪郭を失っていく。声の高さ、笑い方、肌の温度、待ち合わせ場所の光、ホテルの廊下の匂い。かつては確かに自分の内部を支配していたものが、時間の経過とともに、曇ったガラスの向こう側へ押しやられていく。

 消えてほしいと願ったこともある。

 だが実際に消え始めると、今度はそれが怖くなる。

 自分が何に壊され、何に金を払い、何を欲しがっていたのか。
 その輪郭まで失われてしまえば、あの5年間は本当にただの浪費になる。

 317回。
 167人。
 1190万9300円。

 数字だけは残っている。

 数字は冷たい。
 だが、冷たいからこそ裏切らない。

 私はノートに何度も同じ数字を書いた。

 それは懺悔ではない。
 反省でもない。

 消えていくものを、せめて記録として縛りつけるためだった。

 Angelのことを考える。

 考えているつもりだった。

 だが、ある日気づく。
 自分が思い出しているのは、もう彼女ではない。

 彼女を通じて見えていた風景だった。

 金で買われる身体。
 病を抱えたまま回転する生活。
 壊れているのに、稼げてしまう幻想。
 破綻しているのに、まだ続けられてしまう現実。

 それは彼女個人の物語ではなく、私自身の鏡像でもあった。

 壊れるまで買い続けた男。
 壊れるまで売り続けた女。

 その二つが接触した瞬間、何かが発生した。

愛ではない。
 救済でもない。
 理解ですらない。

 ただ、同じ崩壊の別方向を見ているという認識。

 それだけだった。

 そして、その認識がいちばん危険だった。

 なぜなら、それは関係を美化するからだ。

 地獄に意味を与え、
 破綻に詩を与え、
 病に運命のような輪郭を与える。

 私はそれをしてはならないと知っている。

 だが、文学とは、しばしばそれをしてしまう行為でもある。

 Oblivion。

 消失。

 すべてが消えていく。

 快楽の記憶も、罪悪感も、怒りも、欲望も、憐憫も。

 最後に残るのは、ひとつの問いだけだった。

 ――あれは本当に必要だったのか。

 答えは出ない。

 必要だったと言えば、あまりにも醜い。
 不要だったと言えば、あまりにも虚しい。

 だから私は、答えの代わりに机へ向かう。

 東京大学文科一類。

 その文字列は、忘却に抵抗するための最後の装置だった。

 過去を消すためではない。
 過去に別の文脈を与えるために。

 英語の長文を読む。

 構文を取る。
 主語を探す。
 動詞を確認する。
 接続詞の向こう側へ進む。

 文章は、崩壊しない。

 少なくとも、こちらが正しく読もうとする限り、文章はその構造を 保っている。

 それが今の私には奇跡のように思えた。

 人間は崩れる。
 関係は崩れる。
 身体も、精神も、約束も崩れる。

 だが、一文だけは、まだ読める。

 ならば、今日も一文読む。

 忘却の中で、私は完全に救われることはない。

 Angelも救われない。
 過去も救われない。
 払った金も戻らない。
 失った時間も戻らない。

 それでも、消失には一つだけ役割がある。

 執着の輪郭を鈍らせること。

 鮮明すぎる記憶は、人間を現場へ連れ戻す。
 少しぼやけた記憶だけが、作品になる。

 私はようやく理解する。

 忘れることは、裏切りではない。

 忘れなければ、書けない。

 完全に覚えているものは、まだ現実の一部だ。
 少し失われたものだけが、文学の領域へ移動する。

 だから私は、彼女を忘れ始めていることを恐れながら、同時に受け入れている。

 これは喪失ではない。

 変換だ。

 脳の中で腐っていた記憶が、言葉へ変わる。
 金で買った時間が、文章へ変わる。
 破綻した欲望が、受験勉強の沈黙へ変わる。

 外は夕方になっていた。

 部屋にはまだ何も起きていない。

 だが、何も起きていないことが、今はありがたかった。

 私はノートの端に書く。

 ――Oblivion is not the end.
 ――It is the beginning of form.

 忘却は終わりではない。
 形の始まりだ。

 その下に、今日解いた英文の点数を書く。

 低い点数だった。

 だが、点数がある。
 測れるものがある。
 やり直せるものがある。

 それだけで、まだこちら側にいる証拠にはなった。

 私は最後に、もう一度だけ数字を見る。

 317回。
 167人。
 1190万9300円。

 そして、その横に小さく書き足す。

 ――ここから先は、払わない。

 金ではなく、時間を払う。

 快楽ではなく、集中を払う。

 崩壊ではなく、形式を払う。

それが、私に残された最後の賭けだった

Soft Landing, Attempted

Soft Landing, Attempted

Ejaculation was not, for me, a matter of pleasure so much as verification—an imprecise proof that I had not yet broken. The difficulty was that the proof referred to no agreed-upon standard. I had never defined what condition would count as “unbroken,” never established an endpoint against which the claim could be measured. And yet I continued to verify. With repetition, the act altered its function. What began as confirmation became so automated that confirmation was no longer required. Little intention remained in it. I was, simply, repeating.

I retain the sensation that I am trying to land. Whether I am actually decelerating is another matter. It is possible that I have mistaken a steady orbit for a reduction in speed. “Soft landing” has the quality of a phrase imported from elsewhere, a term whose assurance exceeds my experience of it by a small but persistent margin.

In the morning I inventory the body: pain, dullness, minor irregularities. These present themselves as residues of the previous night’s activity, reliably there. I drink coffee and let the bitterness settle in the mouth while attempting to reconstruct the route—how it began, the point at which return became unlikely, where it ended. The particulars dissolve almost at once, leaving behind a single pattern. Repetition tends to level memory.

When I was frequenting encounter cafés, the range of choice appeared limitless. In practice, each choice returned me to the same place. Similar voices, similar gestures, similar silences. Individual episodes gradually lost their distinctness within the cycle. It may be that I was not choosing people so much as tracing, again and again, the path that led to a familiar result.

Medication made the body more obedient. Time, too, could be managed to a degree. The impulse, however, did not submit; if anything, it acquired sharper edges. The feeling of control became one more component of the system it purported to regulate. I called this efficiency, while recognizing, at the same time, something in it that resembled a premonition of failure.

There exists only the assumption that I am slowing down. No reliable measure confirms it. More often I suspect that I am gliding at a constant altitude. Even so, I am reluctant to relinquish the word “landing.” Without it, I would be unable to posit an end to the motion at all.

On reflection, there was never a destination to begin with. There was only motion, to which I later assigned the idea of an endpoint in order to make it legible. Even so, I persist in believing that some final destination must exist, and I continue to search for its location. I attempt to decelerate toward a terminus that is not there. The structure of this effort contains a certain absurdity.

At intervals—brief, discontinuous—there are moments that approximate sobriety. Nothing is being done, and nothing seems lacking. They do not last. The system reasserts itself and draws me back into its orbit. Still, the fact of those moments, however fleeting, serves as the only available index.

A soft landing may be less a state than a technique, or even merely the name for a series of attempts. Not an achievement but a process sustained over time. In that sense, its remaining unaccomplished is not necessarily failure.

Within an unending repetition, I try to introduce a slight deviation of course. That minimal drift is, for now, what I mean by deceleration, and also, perhaps, the nearest thing to the prospect of landing.

Only Godzilla was watching…

More alone than the devil

There is another form of existence: to sever oneself—cleanly, without residue—from the body of society.

Not retreat, but rupture. Not resignation, but refusal.

The world names it “retirement.”

In truth, it is exile by one’s own hand: a deliberate abandonment of the herd, in order to live alone—answerable to nothing but one’s own taste.

No longer does one crawl before the idol of usefulness.

No longer does one beg for meaning by serving the needs of others.

One turns away—coldly—from this economy of justification.

Instead, one founds oneself within the so-called culture of living: a domain that does not serve, does not justify, does not redeem.

It simply is—a sovereign territory of form, sensation, and self-creation.

Production. Reproduction.

These are the labors of the species—mechanisms of its blind will to persist.

Let them belong to the many.

What remains—what is higher—is without purpose.

It does not contribute. It does not advance. It does not explain itself.

It is the excess of life over necessity: the refinement of existence into something willed for its own sake.

This is what the timid call “play.”

But play, in its pure form, is not trivial—it is tyrannical.

It obeys no law beyond its own intensity.

It exists because it must exist, because it affirms itself.

The cultivated classes of the Edo period once knew this, and called it yūgei—disciplined frivolity, perfected uselessness.

Art belongs here. Ritual belongs here. Even the most fleeting amusements—yes, even something like Pokémon GO—can, in their purified form, be transfigured into this domain.

To live outside society, then, is not escape.

It is selection.

It is to reject the question, “What is this for?”

and to answer instead with one’s life:

It is for nothing. Therefore, it is everything.

Bottomed Out

Bottomed Out

I spiraled down a path of addiction, starting with gambling and progressing to addiction to Filipino pubs, alcohol, and dating cafes. With the exception of my addiction to sex, I was able to break free from my addictions through hitting rock bottom, returning to society and becoming indifferent to my former targets. I became a believer in the “bottomed out” approach, which involves pouring all of one’s money, time, and physical energy into facing one’s addiction head on. I believed that this approach would work for overcoming my final addiction, and by October of 2021, I had converted to this “bottomed out” approach.

I devoted all of my energy to pursuing my own methodology, based on my own experience, and aimed for the final destination of “bottoming out.” I locked myself in the Kabukicho entertainment district, doing as I pleased, and felt that even if I barely survived, it would be better than nothing. However, this way of thinking itself was foolish, reckless, and perhaps even a biological, fundamental instinct of a male to contain the addiction of sex. It was inappropriate to believe that I could overcome this addiction by sheer force. Ultimately, my last addiction felt like a bottomless swamp, with the bottom seemingly far away, or maybe the concept of a bottom was not appropriate at all. I was drawn to a fleeting desire for a state of being that didn’t exist. Such endless delusions and intense desires are surely a type of mental illness.

But, fortunately, I was able to avoid a complete mental breakdown and loss of willpower that would have led to homelessness and instead interacted with young people without developing fatal troubles. I must have been lucky. Although I didn’t reach the sensation of bottoming out, I was left with a feeling of “I’ve had enough.” I continued to run through the night streets in search of the orgasm of my heart, even as I suffered from prostatitis and almost collapsed from exhaustion. This was like continuously stepping on the accelerator pedal, even as the engine burned out in a car. The feeling still smolders deep inside me.