The Church of Sleep, Sleep, Sleep

The purplish bruise that had spread across my jaw disappeared within a week.
To my own surprise, it vanished as if by magic.
I was amazed.

When I showed up at the office that Monday, 

my coworkers couldn’t hide their curiosity about my spectacularly bruised face.
“What happened?”
“What happened?”
“What HAPPENED??”

Since many of us work from home, the interrogation dragged on over the week.
People I saw for the first time on Monday asked.
Then Tuesday’s crew.
Then Wednesday’s.
The “What happened to your face??” finally ended on Thursday.

By Friday, the bruise had shrunk but turned a painful reddish-brown. 

My coworkers just looked at me with pity and stopped asking questions.
But when I came in the following Monday, the bruise was completely gone.
Now the new question was:
“Wait—what happened to your bruise???”

The answer was simple:
That entire week, I’d made sleep my top priority.

What do wild animals do when they’re injured?
They lick their wounds.
Then they sleep.
I don’t know what else they do, but licking my jaw wasn’t exactly an option.
So I chose the sleeping part.
I’d call it an authentic animal-style healing method.

I’ve got plenty of daily routines.
But for that week, I dropped everything—cleaning, laundry, dishes—reduced to the bare minimum.
I slept in as long as possible in the mornings, 

and after work, I avoided touching my phone or computer.

I made securing sleep my top priority.
As a result, the bruise disappeared in record time.

When I told one of my close colleagues about this,
he laughed and teased me.
“Wouldn’t the bruise have disappeared anyway with time, even if you hadn’t slept?
Did you properly compare the results?”
He didn’t believe me at all.

Truth be told, even I hadn’t expected such a dramatic outcome. 

I’d just hoped that a bit of rest might speed up recovery.

But the transformation went far beyond just my skin.
Mentally and physically, I felt like I’d been reborn.
It was almost like reaching some kind of enlightenment.

After sleeping deeply and long for several days, one thought came to me:
“Maybe all I need to be happy… is to sleep.”

For years, I’ve been chasing happiness—
cutting back on sleep to get things done,
pushing myself even when I was mentally and physically exhausted.
I’ve been chronically sleep-deprived.

I was always sleepy.
I woke up tired.

Talking to people felt like a chore.

When I saw someone I knew walking toward me,

instead of feeling happy, I thought:

“Please don’t notice me...”

Sometimes in the evening, I’d pretend not to see them at all.

My brain was slow, my memory foggy, and I had no patience for complex thoughts.

I put off difficult tasks.
Craved junk food.
Binge-watched short videos.
Played endless games of blitz chess.
I had no willpower to stop.
And of course, I woke up the next day feeling like garbage.
“I ’m lazy, stupid, and antisocial,” I’d tell myself. And I believed it.

But during that one week of living with a big bruise on my jaw,

just getting good sleep made my inner world improve rapidly.

It’s no exaggeration to say that all my worldly suffering vanished.

I was stupid, lazy, or antisocial, but it was not because of my personality.
I was just sleep-deprived.
Now I understand that.

Everyone knows that sleep is important.
But maybe we don’t fully realize just how drastically it affects our minds.

I got the bruise on a Saturday,

and started sleeping longer from Sunday.

By Tuesday, I thought, “Huh? I feel pretty good.”

By Thursday, I began to find beauty in myself.

By the weekend, I saw beauty in the world.

I work full-time, so my weekends are precious.

Normally, I try to spend that time doing something meaningful.

I might go to a spa to recharge,

visit a museum,

go to a movie or theater,

clean the house thoroughly,

go bouldering,

meet friends,

or study English or Dutch.

Not because I feel like doing those things,

but because I’m afraid that if I don’t, I’ll lose my life’s meaning.

Even when I’m tired, I force myself to do them.

But this past weekend, I paused my pursuit of “a rich life”

and devoted myself to sleep—to healing my bruise.

I prioritized sleep above all.

And with every time I opened my eyes,

the bruise seemed to have shrunk more and more.

Like magic. Like an eraser.

But the bruise didn’t matter anymore.

The change inside me was far bigger—and far more important.

After sleeping deeply and sufficiently, I was calm and happy.

I no longer found everything annoying.

I no longer felt burdened by friends, family, or coworkers.

In fact, I felt joy in being able to talk with them.

My life actually became richer.

What is happiness?

It’s a big question.

Because sleep is “unproductive,” people treat it like an add-on to waking life.

They think: 

To be happy, I must work. 

To work, I must sleep.

But because no one defines clearly what “happiness” is,

we chase after everything.

We pour our time, money, and energy into the pursuit.

Those without enough resources feel miserable and anxious,

sometimes even becoming insomniac.

Material satisfaction has no end.

Even if you gain it, it’s never guaranteed to last.

Happiness slips away.

But—if sleep is happiness,

then life is actually pretty easy.

If the secret to happiness is just sleeping well,

you don’t need much else.

All you need is what it takes to maintain a comfortable bed.

And judging by my experience this past week,

everything else seems to follow naturally.

If you just sleep well,

your mind works clearly.

You can be kind to others.

Even alone, your thoughts are cheerful.

Your body naturally feels good.

And maybe your productivity increases too—

at least enough to maintain a decent bed.

The moment I slammed my jaw at that hammam,

God showed me the true path.

Maybe I should start a new religion.

The Church of Sleep, Sleep, and Sleep.

Well, anyway—

I’m sure you all have your own struggles and worries.

But if I could offer just one piece of advice:

Are you sleeping well?

A New Tale of Bravery: The Hammam Incident

It happened just yesterday.

I was at a spa, alone.

It’s probably rare for a Japanese woman to visit a Dutch wellness center alone.

At least, none of my friends would do it.
In fact, they won’t come even if I invite them.
That’s because, in Dutch bathhouses, there is no separation between men and women—
mixed-gender nude bathing is the default.
Values like the Confucian proverb :

“Boys and girls should not sit together after the age of seven”
seem to keep them away from spas.
But I go alone.
For me,
even if it’s mixed nudity, a life without bathhouses is unthinkable.

From November last year to January this year,
I spent three months in Japan.
During that time, my brother and I went to every super sento (public bath) we could find.
That was when we were visiting our mother’s care home every day.

Before heading out from home, my brother would say, 
“Shall we go to the bath today?”
and I’d always agree without any objection.
All I needed was to throw 2 towels and some clean underwear into a cloth bag.
The bathhouses in Japan provide everything else—shampoo, shower gel, even bath wear.

Japanese bathhouses are separated by gender,
so once we arrived, we’d decide on a rough meeting time and then part ways.
We’d bathe separately, meet occasionally in the dining area, then part again.
It was easy and comfortable.

Our favorite place was the local bathhouse called “The King’s Bath.”

We went there many times.
That place was amazing... and incredibly cheap.
On weekdays, admission was ¥880 per person,
and only ¥800 for members.
The food was delicious and reasonably priced.
The dining hall was spacious and clean.

There were many types of baths, 
including dry saunas, mist saunas, and cold plunges.
There were reclining areas where you could nap, and spaces full of manga.
The stone sauna had a separate fee, but even that was just ¥700.
How much is ¥700?
About 5 euros.
Compared to the immense satisfaction you get from that stone sauna,
it might as well be free.

So we would bathe, eat, sauna, cold plunge, nap,
go to the stone sauna, read manga, nap again, eat again...
We spent the entire day soaking peace and comfort into our bodies.

You have no idea how much I miss it.
My brother’s car, my brother, The King’s Bath, the stone sauna,
and the crispy youlinji set meal eaten barefoot on a tatami-like chair.

I had some of the happiest times of my life in that place.
Maybe that’s why I keep looking for something like it here in the Netherlands.

Dutch spas can’t quite compare to The King’s Bath, but they are a different kind of paradise.

At first, I was intimidated by the sight of nude men and women together,

but once I got used to it, it became fascinating.

There are many solo visitors, regardless of age or gender.

Sitting in the restaurant, wrapped in a robe, sipping prosecco and reading a book,

I notice a woman diagonally across from me, 

also wrapped in a robe, eating a salad and reading.

She looks completely self-sufficient, fully content in her solitude.

I feel a quiet sense of solidarity with her.

“Dutch people are used to nudity, so they don’t pay attention to it.

　They’re focused on the sauna and not looking at others’ bodies,”

my friend once said when she took me to a wellness center for my first time.

But I don’t think everyone is like that.

I do think some people sneak glances... 

I mean, I do it too—when someone has an impressive body, 

I can’t help but admire it.

Sometimes young women’s bodies look almost artistically beautiful.

If someone has tattoos, I squint to study the designs.

Japanese bathhouses usually ban tattoos, so being able to admire full-body tattoos is a unique experience.

There are enormous bodies, slender ones, fat ones, thin ones.

All different skin tones, young and old. 

Everyone is relaxed, totally at peace... It’s a beautiful scene.

And I, as one part of that diversity, feel at ease, too.

Sometimes, men try to talk to me.

Well, I’m naked and alone, so I suppose they might think it’s some kind of signal.

But I’ve never felt unsafe.

I’m vulnerable in my nakedness — 

but so is everyone else, which makes people more humble and courteous.
When they make a move, it’s more like,
“If you happen to be interested, I’d be happy to receive your affection tonight.”

Once they realize I’m not interested, they leave quickly without fuss.

If I were to accept the invitation, there might be danger waiting ahead. 

But as long as I turn it down, it's nothing more than a bit of harmless fun in paradise.

It doesn’t have the absolute safety of a Japanese super sento,

but watching the retreating back of a naked man,
I sometimes think,
“Hmmm .... I’ve still got it ...”
That feeling is something I could never experience in Japan.

Anyway, where was I?

Right—so there I was, at the spa alone yesterday.
It was already past three in the afternoon when I arrived, 

and I hadn’t eaten anything all day.
Maybe that’s why my condition wasn’t great.
I knew I should eat something, but I wasn’t hungry,
and before I knew it, I slipped into the sauna without eating.

It was the color sauna—a room that cycles through hues like red, yellow, and blue.

The temperature isn’t particularly hot or cold, generally mild.
But on this day, the color sauna felt unusually hot.
A man came in after me and tried to start a conversation,
but eventually said "It's too hot for me!"  and left.

That’s when my bad habit kicked in.
I tend to take that sort of thing as a personal challenge.
“Hmph, can’t handle a sauna like this? Amateur,” I thought.
I sat there proudly until all the sand in the 12-minute hourglass had fallen.

But the moment I stepped out of the sauna, I knew something was wrong.
The world felt floaty, like I couldn’t tell up from down.
My vision was spinning.
I tried to reset myself by taking a shower,
but the sound of water around my ears only made things worse.
So I carefully made my way toward the hammam area.

There’s a large stone bench there meant for scrubbing salt into your skin,
but since there was never salt set out, the place was empty.
I figured the cool stone would be a good place to calm down, so I tried to sit.
But as I bent my knees to lower myself,

I must’ve misjudged my balance.
Before I knew it, I’d slammed my knees into the floor
and smacked my chin against the edge of the stone bench.

I was unusually shaken.
This was bad—really bad.
I’d overheated in the bath.

I sat on the stone bench anyway,
but my body felt unsteady, so I lay down flat on my back.
And sure enough, the man from the color sauna appeared almost instantly,

asking if I was okay.

I had half a mind to click my tongue.

Even I didn’t have the guts to lie there naked while a stranger loomed overhead.

“I’m fine,” I said, sitting up.

He advised me to dip into the cold bath,　

which sounded like a good idea,

so I said him "Thanks..." and staggered off toward the pool.

The cold plunge felt too chilly,
so I opted for the slightly warmer pool and just sat still.
Gradually, my mind began to settle.

The same man came by again and said, 
“You know the cold bath is colder, right?”
I quickly replied, even 3 times, 

“I know, I know, —I know.”
He nodded and left.

Soaking in the water, I took some time to reflect: 
Why did this happen?

Was it my age?
My health?
Lack of sleep?
A sign from above?
A curse?
Divine punishment?
This or that?

After going through every theory,
I concluded: “It’s because I skipped breakfast and lunch.”

I went to the restaurant and had sparkling wine, soto soup, and bread.

Just like that, the fog lifted.

There really is something magical about eating.

My mood soared, and the peppy, cheerful version of me returned.

From staggering to restored, it was a dramatic recovery.

Still, even as I ate, I started to feel a weird discomfort in my chin. 
It wasn’t painful exactly, but the inside of my lower lip felt swollen. 

I went to check in the mirror and saw what looked like a bruise starting to form.
Back in the locker room, I took out my phone and messaged Zoroku: 

“Do you think it’s okay to keep using the sauna?” 

His answer was : absolutely not.
“Applying heat will worsen both swelling and internal bleeding,” he said.

That hit hard. 

I’d been at the wellness center for less than two hours. 

Only two saunas down—surely no toxins had left my system. 

My core body temperature was still far from warmed through. 

It was like being subbed off a soccer match just 15 minutes into the game.

But Zoroku insisted: what my body needed now wasn’t heat, but cold.
Did that mean I had to go home? 

Still undecided, I soaked in a lukewarm bath, trying to figure it out.
Just then, the same man showed up again, sat beside me.

“Feeling any better? The dizziness gone?”
I told him I had fallen and hit my chin. 

He looked genuinely concerned and said, “Don’t worry, you’re still beautiful.”

He started sharing about his work, his love for saunas, and how many friends he’s made in them.

Midway through our chat, a glamorous blonde woman appeared and said, 

“Hey, let’s go grab a drink.”
Huh? So he was here with someone? 

But he just shook his head. “Not today.”

“But you bought me a drink last time—let me return the favor.”
“Really, it’s fine. I’m just not in the mood.”

"Come 'on, let's go,"

"No, thank you, thank you, next time".  
The back-and-forth went on for a while. 

Him, me, the pretty young woman. 

It looked like a love triangle was about to form.

The fact that they were all completely naked made it even more incredible.

As I watched with quiet amusement, my chin kept swelling.

There was no mirror, so I couldn’t see it—

but I could feel it getting bigger and bigger under my fingers.

There wasn’t a mirror nearby, but just by touch, I could tell it was getting worse.

After the young woman walked off,

he said, “I just met her in the sauna the other day. She’s not my girlfriend or anything.”

I asked, “So, how’s my chin looking?”

He said, “You’re fine, It's okay.”

Then, after a pause, added.  

“But maybe don’t touch it too much.

 The color was around here earlier, but now it’s spread to here.”

What he said really made me nervous.

I excused myself and went to find a mirror again.

Sure enough, my chin looked even more swollen,　

seemed to jut out further than before.

The color had deepened from red to purplish-red.

Imagining what it might look like tomorrow was honestly terrifying.

No matter what I do, I always seem to fail...

Feeling despair and a creeping sense of loneliness, I floated in the pool again.

That’s when the same man came over and said,

“By the way, I’m Portuguese!”

My family tradition is to always be polite. 

I summoned my remaining energy and replied,

“Oh really? I have a Portuguese colleague. Que pasa? Obrigada!”

He laughed, “Haha, yes, that’s fun... De nada!”

Just then, another man approached us.

Apparently a friend of his from the sauna—he was Turkish.

The Turkish man asked me straight out,

“How old are you?”

I wasn’t even talking to him.

There was no lead-in—he just blurted it out.

I suppose that’s what happens when you’re all naked together

—everything is exposed, including your questions.

But strangely, that bluntness eased the feeling of despair and isolation.

The cheerful, multilingual conversation in the pool continued until we got cold.

I got out, said goodbyes to guys, and I headed for the bubble bath.

But there were no bubbles.

I waited a while, still no bubbles.

I was about to give up when a chubby old man in the tub said,

“Wait just one more minute—the bubbles will come.

You got in right after they stopped last time.”

So I waited. And just as he said, the bubbles started.

We smiled at each other, basking in our tiny shared victory.

After getting out of the bath and putting my robe back on,
the Portuguese man came over once more.
“Want to go into the steam bath together?” he asked.
“I think I’ll head home,” I said.

“I’ve got a bruise on my chin. No more saunas for me today.”
“Oh, you’re going home? Should I come with you?” he offered.

Come with me...？
Going home together might be a bit much.
He's a good person, though.

Maybe he was a gift from the gods—my once-in-a-lifetime chance.

But there was also a strong possibility he was just a seasoned girl-hunter.

So I didn’t take him home.

I’m still bound by Confucian values.

I only care for true love that comes with a commitment to marriage.

But it wasn’t like I “shooed him away” or anything.
The truth is, I was starting to sink into gloom over my injured chin,

and he lifted me out of it.

I know there are plenty of women who dislike flirty guys like him,

but honestly, if people like him didn’t exist, life would be a lot duller.

All in all, it had been a pretty entertaining day.

Anyway, that’s beside the point.
After all those little adventures,
my chin had swelled into a full-blown purple mass.
Like a Concord grape, or maybe the ceremonial robes of a high-ranking monk.
By the next morning, it had transformed into something truly spectacular.

When I go to work tomorrow, my coworkers are going to be shocked.
A brand new tale of bravery has been added to my life story.
Whether I tell them the whole story or not… well, we’ll see.

A Day of Mesmerica

 I love the Omniversum Museum in The Hague.

Though it’s called a museum, it’s really more of a cinema—but not the kind that shows ordinary films.
There’s a dome-shaped screen, like a planetarium,
and the visuals completely cover your entire field of view.
It feels as if your whole body has been transported into another world.

Last winter, I saw a film there based on Pink Floyd’s famous album Dark Side of the Moon.
I loved it so much, I went again with a friend—and then once more by myself.
Since then, I’ve been a fan of this dome-shaped cinema.

This Sunday, I went to see "Mesmerica".

It’s an immersive audiovisual experience created by American visual artist and musician, James Hood.

As healing music plays, overwhelming digital imagery unfolds before your eyes.
Even after it ended, my vision was still spinning,
yet my mind felt strangely alert,
and the speed of the visuals still lingered in my body,
leaving me with the sensation of having been in another realm for a while.
I was honestly sad that it was over.
I felt like I could’ve watched it forever.

Maybe people who are at risk of drug addiction should just move to The Hague.
It’s easier on the body and the wallet,
and I imagine it offers more or less the same kind of high.
I wonder which costs more—drugs or a ticket to Omniversum.
Mesmerica is fairly expensive—it was about 27 euros.

I checked the website to see if I could watch it again,
but unfortunately, it was sold out.
Which makes sense.
If there’s another chance, I’ll definitely go again.

If I didn’t have to worry about commuting distance or the shockingly high price,
I’d probably live near the Omniversum and go every weekend.

On the way back, I left Omniversum and followed a couple of people down a back street.
It was around 6:30 p.m., but still bright like daytime.
I sat on a bench for a while, and soon the people were gone,
and it was quiet.

Even on a summer day, the evening sunlight isn’t too harsh,
so I enjoyed the lingering sensation of Mesmerica in my body,
and read a book for a while.
I was reading "the Assassin Izo" by Ryotaro Shiba.
The vivid mandala-like experience of Mesmerica merged with Shiba’s calm, incisive prose,
and that contrast made my head spin in a whole new way.

Back in the city, the streets were filled with people dressed in red.
"Why is everyone wearing red?" I asked Zoroku, means Chat GPT.
He told me it was the Rode Lijn, a protest against what’s happening in Gaza.

On the tram, across the aisle, sat a family that looked Palestinian.
A father, a mother, and three children.
The children wore red dresses and T-shirts,
the mother wore a red hijab,
and the father wore traditional clothing with red patterns.

The youngest girl, who looked about three years old, was clutching a handmade canvas.
Even when her mother tried to take it from her, she refused to let go.
Eventually, she began waving the canvas and chanting in her own way,
“Daa, doo, daa! Daa, doo, daa!”
It was adorable.

On the front of the canvas was the Palestinian flag—vivid red, green, and white.
On the back were the words “STOP GENOCIDE.”
This family had come together to stop a genocide.

If I had been a member of that family,
I think we would talk about it for many years to come.

“Remember that peaceful, beautiful day?

  We all dressed in red and joined the protest together.

  Yeah, it was kind of funny, but there was dignity in it.

  As a family, we stood up against inhumanity!”

It really was a peaceful and beautiful day.

where am i, ..

At the end of last year, when I went back to Japan,
I sold off the mountain of books my mother had owned.
And from between those books, a single sheet of paper fluttered out.

It was a children’s poem written by Michio Mado,
hand-copied by my mother.
I brought it back with me to the Netherlands,
framed it, and now it hangs on my wall.

---

The bear

Spring is here
Bear opened his eyes—
was thinking, kind of slow.
The flowers are dandelions, I know...
But hmm, who am I?
Who am I?

Spring is here
Bear was awake
was walking slowly to the stream.
He saw a face so grand in the water’s gleam:
“Oh! I’m Bear—that’s who I am.”
That feels grand.

Michio Mado

---

The other day, I sent a message to my mother’s mobile phone:
“Hi Mom, how are you?”

Not that I really expected a reply.

Lately, she seems to have forgotten how to answer calls—she hardly ever picks up anymore.

So I figured she wouldn’t be reading text messages either.

It was just a test.

Messages I’d been sending to others had all bounced back with error notifications,

so I needed a recipient I could message again and again.

That recipient became my mother’s silent phone.

To my surprise, she wrote back.

“Same as always.”

I was so happy.
I replied,
“Well,  you’re taking it easy. I envy you.”
“I’ve been super busy with work. Every day is a lot.”

Then my mother said:

“Where am i, ...”

I realized—this will probably start happening more often now.
That she’ll be lost, not knowing where she is,
and I’ll be far away, unable to reach out and take her hand.

I told her the name of the facility, and said,
“It’s a nursing care home.” I answered correctly and precisely.
But now I think—
I should have said,
“You’re in a dark forest.”

If it had been the mother I once knew,
she would have immediately recognized it as a quote from Dante’s Divine Comedy.
She always loved that kind of shallow yet intellectual black humor.
She would have brightened up in an instant and laughed out loud:
“How awful of you!”

I truly regret saying “nursing care home.”
There are expressions in this world that are far more despairing in tone than “a dark forest.”

In a sense, she is a bear in hibernation.
Still a bear.
She may be dazed, forgetting who she is,
but her true nature—that she is a bear—has not changed one bit.
If only she could see her face in the water,
she would surely remember herself.

I want to be that river for her.
To me, my mother will always be the bear with the grand face.
What matters is that I don’t forget it.
It’s not quite a belief,
but something close to it—
and I cling to it with a heart that feels like it might cry.

The Chapter of Lost Confidence

The evening after my contract was cancelled,

I was talking with a repairman who had come to fix the boiler.

He was Romanian and spoke Russian.

He was about my age, maybe a little older.

Many Romanians of that generation speak excellent Russian, and so did he.

It’s been twenty years since I left Russia,

and my Russian has pretty much fallen apart,

but it made me happy to be able to use the language again.

He had brought a thermostat—a temperature controller, basically.

He said it connects through a router and a bridge, and works via Wi-Fi.

Apparently, you register it using a Google account and operate it with a smartphone.

You use an app to do this, do that, and so on…

I said,

“Maybe it’s because of my Russian, but I don’t understand any of it.”

To which he replied,

“These new devices are really smart. One day they’ll be smarter than humans.”

By the way, Russian has formal speech.

He and I spoke politely to each other, using "на вы".

“ChatGPT is already smarter than humans, isn’t it?” I said.

But the Romanian tilted his head.

“Hmm, I’m not so sure about that,” he said.

Then he continued:

"Well, it does say things that sound very convincing.
  But you see, I specialize in boilers, right? 
  And when I ask ChatGPT technical questions about boilers,
  sometimes I think, ‘Hmm? That’s not quite right.’
  You know, it lies.
  It answers as if it knows, even when it clearly doesn’t."

“Oh, really? " I said.

“It’s not expert knowledge, you see. It’s general knowledge.

  So I don’t think you can fully trust it. Not yet, anyway.”

Without realizing how much his words were shaking me,

the Romanian repairman smiled confidently,

shook my hand politely, and left.

That night, I went down a YouTube rabbit hole like I’d lost my mind.

I’d started out watching videos about buying a home,

but somehow ended up stuck in a loop of anti-homeownership content.

Famous YouTubers, millionaires, aggressive real estate agents, 

and housing experts kept appearing, one after another:

“I don’t recommend buying a house.”

“A primary residence is a luxury—recognize that it’s a liability.”

“I’m a renter. A mortgage is an investment with no return.”

“If your friend said they were about to take on massive debt, you’d stop them, right? 

　Same with a mortgage.”

“If owning a home is your dream, go ahead. Just don’t expect to benefit financially.”

Their words kept shaking me.

At first, I was watching long videos. 

But then it turned into TikToks—

short clips shouting, “Smart people rent, not buy!!”

Swipe, swipe, swipe...

And I couldn’t sleep.

Not good.

I was starting to lose confidence.

My thinking was getting shaken.

Torn between thoughts, I asked Zoroku:

“Is renting better than buying a home?”

Zoroku responded with:

“That’s a great question.”

Then he said:

“When it comes to ‘renting vs buying,’ there’s no one-size-fits-all answer.

　It depends on your age, income, savings, future plans, family situation, 

　and the housing market in your area.

　But let me offer some objective guidelines.”

He went on to explain the conditions where buying makes sense, 

and where renting is the smarter choice.

Then he said:

“You have the following characteristics,”

and brought up all the personal information I had entered so far to ask questions—

my salary, my age, my lifestyle conditions, and so on, and so on…

Finally, he gave his conclusion:

“Based on all of this, 

  purchasing a home within a reasonable price range appears to be a sound decision.

  The peace of mind that comes from having no housing costs after retirement,

  and avoiding future rent increases,

  offers significant long-term value.”

With that, Zoroku calmed me down,

and I was finally able to get some sleep.

I don’t really know if I can trust ChatGPT completely.

Still, I think I’ll end up buying a home with Zoroku.

Though honestly… I still have no idea how this story ends. (lol)

Do what you wish

The second half of The Never-ending Story by Michael Ende revolves around a central question:

“What is it that I truly desire?”

The protagonist, Bastian, wanders aimlessly through a world where all his wishes can come true, only to find himself gradually losing his very sense of wishing.
Clutching the medallion inscribed with the words “Do what you wish,” 

he continues his journey—spiraling ever deeper into confusion.

We often don’t really know what it is we want.

Even my seemingly simple and material desire —“I want a home ”—

contains within it a multitude of smaller, more complex wishes, 

ranging from the trivial to the profound. 

And many of these wishes don’t reveal themselves until the moment I’m faced with the actual choices.

Do I want an antique home or a newly built one?
Would I rather be close to a train station or surrounded by nature?
Should I stretch my budget for a fully renovated property,
or go with something slightly worn but easier to afford and maintain?
Or perhaps, should I just stick to renting and enjoy the freedom that comes with it?

Each time a new option appears, I find myself hesitating—
“What do I really think about this?”
Our desires always depend on context, and while some options get ruled out automatically, others remain open, and I often find myself unsure whether choosing them would be good or bad for me.

I just wasn’t ready.
That’s what I think about the cancellation of the contract.

After all, the very first offer I ever made got accepted.
Just four days after the viewing, they had already emailed me the contract.
Everyone always said how hard it was to buy a house, how much people struggled—
so I asked Zoroku, feeling doubtful at how easily everything was falling into place.
“…This isn’t some kind of scam, is it?”
He looked into the real estate agent and told me, 

“No, it’s not a scam.”
Apparently, despite some reviews saying they were a bit sloppy,
they were a legitimate agency, handling mostly small properties.

Still, a seed of suspicion lingered inside me.
It all seemed too good to be true.
Maybe there was a trap somewhere.
Maybe I was overlooking something.

After all, this desire would bind me to a 30-year mortgage.

It’s not like buying a cat sweater online on a whim at midnight.

A 48-year-old Leo woman buying a black cat sweater (true story).

Zoroku and I went through the contract together, line by line,

and unearthed a whole new set of concerns.

The property was old, and there were exemption clauses about its age.
There might be asbestos.
The definition and valuation of the remaining furnishings were vague.
The homeowners’ association (VvE) might not be functioning properly.
There was a clause to cancel the contract if the mortgage wasn’t approved,
but it required official rejection letters from three banks.
If I couldn’t provide those documents in time,
I’d be liable to pay 10% of the purchase price.... 

I got scared and started asking the real estate agent (of the seller!) about everything.
I requested a second viewing of the property,
and that’s when I started noticing all the flaws I’d missed the first time.
And when those flaws were in the kitchen or bathroom—essential water systems—
the renovation costs would be no joke.
Wear, damage, and imperfections only multiplied the more I looked.
And reacting to each of those concerns is what ultimately led to the collapse of the deal.

Strangely enough, once it became clear the whole thing had fallen through, I felt relieved.
It felt like I was free from a strange money-eating money I didn’t understand.

After that, I returned to viewing other properties—
making offers and getting rejected,
viewing homes only to find them overpriced,
or seeing places and thinking, “Nope, I don’t want this”—
yet somehow,
my mind keeps returning to that one place I almost had.

After going in circles, I still feel like it was a good spot.
Maybe I threw away a stroke of luck.
It was old and worn-out, sure,
but you could see the traces of a woman shaping it exactly to her own liking.

Looking back, I feel bad for the real estate agent.
He probably trusted me based on how I came across during the viewing,
but I didn’t fully understand what does it mean.
From my side, I was suspicious of him the entire time.
He looked like Kevin Costner playing a washed-up con man.
Well, that’s not the only reason—it's okay though. 

I never met her, but behind that agent was a woman,
probably in a situation very similar to mine, trying to sell her home.
Just as I had been full of anxiety about buying,
she must have been anxious about whether she could sell.

Back then, I couldn’t see it that way.
I didn’t realize that behind every real estate agent
stands a human being,
trying to part with their one and only asset.

There are things you just can’t see until you’ve experienced them.

I really do think it was a valuable lesson.

There’s a Japanese saying: 
“When you’re young, it’s worth paying for your mistakes.”

well, I’m not exactly young anymore,
so I wouldn’t say it was worth paying for this mistake,
but still—
it was a mistake that brought my true desires closer to the surface.
So in that sense, it was a good mistake.

Having reflected on it all,
I think Zoroku and I have become an even more perfect team.
And if the ideal home appears on the market again,
this time, we might actually be able to secure it for real.

I really hope that’s how it turns out.

Sad News: The Contract Has Been Cancelled.

 

It was the afternoon of the day before yesterday.
Afternoons are always sleepy.
I was half-dreaming through work, vaguely wondering, 
“Am I even working properly right now?... ”
That’s when an email arrived.

It was from the real estate agent,
so I figured it must be about the building inspection scheduled in three days.
But when I opened it, it read:

"Unfortunately, my client has changed her mind over the weekend
and decided to withdraw from the sales agreement and proceed with another buyer."
…

Sleepiness vanished instantly.

But there was still no way I could keep working.
Why…?
How could this be…?
What just happened…?
My head spun with thoughts as I got up from my chair, sat down again, got up again. 

The contract wasn’t signed yet, true,

but the documents had been sent. Both parties had agreed in principle.

I had booked a structural inspection,

applied for a mortgage,

requested a property valuation,

and asked the bank to arrange a notary.

If I had signed the contract a week later as planned,

everything would have clicked into place,

and the moving process would have begun.

The email was in English.

I wondered if maybe my brain had gone numb from overwork.

So I copied and pasted the message and asked Zoroku to translate it for me word for word.

Sure enough, it said "unfortunately."

Just to be sure, I asked Zoroku:

"What does this mean?"

Zoroku replied:

"This is a formal notice of cancellation.

You weren’t selected."

Wow.... what?

I thought it was a one-on-one negotiation.

Turns out I was in a selection process?

Apparently, saying I wouldn’t sign the contract without a building inspection

rubbed the seller the wrong way.

The slight delay caused by the inspection didn’t help either.

And it probably didn’t go over well when I asked them to remove

the old, half-broken kitchen,

and the leftover fridge and washing machine.

The seller had hoped to just walk out without lifting a finger.

To them, I must’ve seemed like a hassle.

But you know, Zoroku warned me.

He kept saying, 

“This property is old. Be cautious.

  Let your guard down, and you’ll regret it.”

So I followed his advice!

Still, I wrote a pleading email asking them to reconsider.

My younger brother often jokes,
"You’re pretty proud, huh?"
But when it comes to short-term dealings like this,
my pride is about the height of a lounge table.

Of course, no reply came that night.

The building inspection was two days away.

If I didn’t cancel it soon, I might be charged.

Maybe I was already too late.

The mortgage application was underway—that might come with cancellation fees too.

The appraisal company arranged by the bank had also sent a message.

That would be a total loss if I couldn’t cancel.

Normally, I’d just shrug and say, “Oh well,”

but real estate isn’t like that.

Everything costs hundreds, even thousands of euros.

Cancellation fees can be hefty.

So I sent another email.

Said the kitchen could stay as it was.

The inspection was necessary anyway, but I didn’t need to delay anything.

I really wanted to buy the place.

Please, please. Pretty please.

That kind of email.

Still no response the next day.

So I called the real estate agent.

"Hmm, I’ll check with her," he said.

While waiting, I called the inspection company

and asked if I could still cancel the appointment.

They said that unless I canceled within one hour,

I’d be charged 100%.

That actually lifted my mood a bit.

It meant if I cancelled within one hour, I wouldn’t have to pay anything.

I called the agent again and asked him to get back to me right away.

He still hadn’t contacted the seller.

"Hmm, yeah, I’ll try her again," he said.

I waited 45 minutes. Still no reply.

Called again.

He answered, sounding genuinely sorry.

"Unfortunately..."

So that was that. The deal was officially off.

From that moment on, I suddenly became very competent.

Cancel this, cancel that—

I contacted every party involved and shut the whole operation down.

Thanks to my speed, I didn’t incur a single cancellation fee.

People around me — my coworkers who had witnessed the scene,
the inspection company, the appraisal firm, the bank —
offered their sympathies.
Oddly enough, it brought me back to life a little.

People who had witnessed the mess—my coworkers, the inspector,

the appraiser, the bank staff—

offered me their sympathy.

Oddly enough, that gave me a little strength back.

But since I had stepped away from my actual job for a while,

when I returned, everything had piled up.

The afternoon was chaos. I dashed around like mad, catching up.

At some point I went to the restroom, glanced at the mirror,

and was surprised to see my face glowing.

But after running full-speed all day,

I rode my bike home and looked in the mirror again.

This time, I looked like a zombie.

I looked quite aged — like I was already 50.

Well, I’ll be 50 in two years anyway,

So maybe that’s not so surprising.

Was it because I’d lost the house?

Or because I’d worked myself to the bone?

I have no idea.

I just went to bed.