Kamogawa 鴨川

The route from my apartment to Sanjō-eki and back took me down the rough stone path along the Kamogawa’s banks. In the daylight, the Kamogawa was just an ordinary river, just an obstacle standing between me and my destination. But at night, it transformed into something different. Something magical.

Even now, when I close my eyes, I can see the delicate light of the paper lanterns reflected in the water and the intertwined silhouettes of the young lovers sitting along the riverbank. I can still hear the hushed murmur of their voices, one with the gentle rush of the water, punctuated by the wisps of a street musician’s melancholy lyrics drifting from somewhere in the distance: makesou de … nakisou de … kiete shimaisouna toki wa… I can still smell the sweet perfume of the mountain grasses mingling with the aroma of tobacco. And I can still feel the warm summer breeze at my back…

In the hundreds of times I made the journey, I never once lingered to enjoy the music. I never once paused to inhale deeply. I never once sat along the Kamogawa’s banks, embracing someone I loved. I was always nothing more than a passive observer, gliding silently by.

I’ve traveled to many beautiful and awe-inspiring places in my lifetime, from the white sand beaches of Bali to the towering mountains of western China, making countless happy memories along the way. Yet as I lie in the darkness, I don’t remember any of these. I only remember the banks of the Kamogawa in the twilight. And I find myself wishing that I could open my eyes and be there once again, walking alone through the night and floating, as though I were a ghost, above the sea of worldly emotion around me.