Diary of a Void

by Emi Yagi

So this is pregnancy. What luxury. What loneliness.

I tried singing something out loud, as if I were testing out a pen on the white space of the ceiling.

People seemed to be under the impression, at least in my section, that if they made coffee for somebody else, it would signify some deep personal inadequacy.

Isn’t that what people always did? Go their own way, never even bothering to let you know? One moment they’re there, the next they’re gone. And it all happens so quietly that you don’t even realize they aren’t there anymore.

Then again, to be eternally known as the Virgin Mother, as if that’s the only thing that gave meaning to your existence . . . Hey, did you have any hobbies of your own? Or maybe there was a singer you were really into? You must have gotten stressed out sometimes. I mean, being called the Virgin Mother, even after your son was all grown up . . . And then to have him crucified like that. I can’t imagine how hard that must have been. I just hope you managed to live your life the way you wanted, to take naps when you felt like it, to know yourself by a name that made sense to you. . . .

Maybe that’s what making a family is all about: creating an environment in which people make space for one another—maybe without even trying, just naturally, to make sure that nobody’s forgotten.

Even if it is just a lie. The world’s what we make it, right? Even if it’s just us, on our own—with the whole world against us.