Kitchen

by Banana Yoshimoto

When was it I realized that, on this truly dark and solitary path we all walk, the only way we can light is our own? Although I was raised with love, I was always lonely.

In this world there is no place for sadness. No place; not one.

“Life can be so hard,”

“Yes. But if a person hasn’t ever experienced true despair, she grows old never knowing how to evaluate where she is in life; never understanding what joy really is. I’m grateful for it.”

As I grow older, much older, I will experience many things, and I will hit rock bottom again and again. Again and again I will suffer; again and again I will get back on my feet. I will not be defeated. I won’t let my spirit be destroyed.

From the bottom of my heart, I wanted to give up; I wanted to give up on living.

I never thought it would be this hard, but I would go on living in the midst of a gloomy depression, and that made me feel sick to the depths of my soul.

To the extent that I had come to understand that despair does not necessarily result in annihilation, that one can go on as usual in spite of it, I had become hardened. Was that what it means to be an adult, to live with ugly ambiguities? I didn’t like it, but it made it easier to go on.

Why do I love everything that has to do with kitchens so much? It’s strange. Perhaps because to me a kitchen represents some distant longing engraved on my soul. As I stood there, I seemed to be making a new start; something was coming back.

There was only one way to learn: I tried making anything and everything, and I tried to do it right.

Everyone lives the way she knows best.

What I mean by “their happiness” is living a life untouched as much as possible by the knowledge that we are really, all of us, alone.

No matter what, I want to continue living with the awareness that I will die. Without that, I am not alive. That is what makes the life I have now possible.

“It was all your imagination. And imagination is sometimes worse than reality.”

I was crying for having been left behind in the night, paralyzed with loneliness.

In the uncertain ebb and flow of time and emotions, much of one’s life history is etched in the senses. And things of no particular importance, or irreplaceable things, can suddenly resurface in a café one winter night.

I realized that the world did not exist for my benefit. It followed that the ratio of pleasant and unpleasant things around me would not change. It wasn’t up to me. It was clear that the best thing to do was to adopt a sort of muddled cheerfulness. So I became a woman, and here I am.”

Why is it we have so little choice?

We live like the lowliest worms. Always defeated—defeated we make dinner, we eat, we sleep. Everyone we love is dying. Still, to cease living is unacceptable.

We all believe we can choose our own path from among the many alternatives. But perhaps it’s more accurate to say that we make the choice unconsciously.

a little bell that had fallen off the cat.

it wasn’t the most creative gift—took it from my palm and wrapped it carefully in his handkerchief as if it were something precious.

He surprised me: it was not typical behavior for a boy that age.

As it turns out, it ...

ouch... don't start with something like this pls

The whole time I was with him there was that feeling of ephemerality, uncertainty.

The night he died, my soul went away to some other place and I couldn’t bring it back.

DIDN'T ASK TO BE HIT BY A TRUCK TODAY BUT HERE I GOT