11:31 pm, according to Japanese clocks. As Americans start their grind, my gears are starting to ache and beg for oil. Having sated them with oil , this machine is now freezing in a tiny, Western-style apartment. While the organs are metallic and rusting and shutting down and the logic is beginning to break down into chaos , the heart is strangely different… it bleeds.
Hands
If you know me well, you do not need to be reminded of my ridiculous avoidance of asking people for things. There are more fingers on my hands than people I can call and ask for a favor. It is hard for me to call people when I am in their vicinity because I don’t want to disrupt their day or interrupt the wonderful and interesting lives I imagine everyone else to lead. Even worse, those seven people (approx) soon become overburdened by my requests and three months later I have overstayed my welcome.
The problem is, obviously I am fully aware of this, is that I do not give them a chance to make the choice, the chance to say no. I would rather not ask than to hear no. My life has been shaped by avoiding the questions I need to ask. People think moving to Japan is brave. I think asking someone out on a date is brave. By someone, I do not mean a random stranger in a bar, but someone who you can feel will change your life forever if you just jump off that bridge of hesitation.
See, you only see a child who was denied a fishing trip, but I see a man in the glass that no longer uses ink to schedule appointments. It saves me from dealing with disappointments and buying White-Out… and I honestly think I’ll be okay if I never learn how to gut a fish.
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