As we live every day, our mental activities cover only a small portion of all possible worlds. We have to eat, and our attention is focused on things on the dish before you (unless you are an absent-minded academic discussing the theoretical foundations of quantum gravity).
The very small-mindedness of our existence sometimes hurts me. Deeply. But then fortunately, I forget.
Yesterday, I came back from the city of Kanazawa. As I walked along the streets of Tokyo, I realized that no matter how far the internet progresses, we will be ever encapsulated in the here and now.
I was looking for some place to lunch (see, how confined I was!), and discovered a hidden soba restaurant. I was shown upstairs. Sitting down, I realized that the interior looked like the room in which the worrying brother and his colleague discuss sister's
marriage over pork cutlet in Ozu's last film An Autumn Afternoon.
I had no idea that this particular restaurant existed on earth. Likewise, I have no idea about many things. On rare occasions, I can have a sense of the surrounding beings, but then only in a very incomplete way.
As I write this journal in the morning, I weep for my midget existence. I would have liked to live up to the vast multitude of existence, but that is not to be, confined as we are in the flesh.
I am otherwise practical and hard working. Why this state of mind today? I think it is the result of the spring gust entering me.