Sometimes in the evenings, I head to the studio shrine. It’s one of the few places where I can sing and play as loud as I want. I love walking in, turning up the volume, and just practicing. I’m working on building the confidence to perform in front of people when I return home. My setup is so technical that it often feels like I’m just troubleshooting gear—but I’m close now. Really close.
I’ve been warned about wild boars in the bamboo forest outside the shrine. So when I poke my head out at night, I’m always listening. Earlier this week, I heard a lot of shuffling and clanking. It freaked me out so much I almost didn’t go back in. But as the sounds grew louder and the night darker, I decided to pack up quickly. I slid open the doors, bolted to my bike, and pedaled as fast as I could toward the main road.
When I finally got there, heart racing, I realized it was just a nearby factory making all the noise—clanking and rumbling like some wild creature. I looked up what a wild boar actually looks like, and yeah… it’s basically a really ugly pig. Definitely not cute.
Still, next time I’m there after dark, I’ll be ready to scurry out just as fast.
Life here has such a slow pace. I wake up, have breakfast, and often share a morning chat with Clementine, Kenna, and Amir. Then I head upstairs, get my things together, and make my way to the shrine. My bags are heavy, but I’ve developed a little system. It’s easy now.
I play music. Then I grab a coffee. And before I know it—it’s dinnertime. The day disappears in the best way.
One of my main goals in coming here was to move more—to get away from sitting in front of a screen all day. And that’s exactly what I’m doing. I hop on my bike to go everywhere. The trains are familiar now, too. It’s easy to hop on and head out—though I haven’t ventured too far just yet.
I have to admit: I do get lonely sometimes. But it’s a good kind of loneliness—the kind that reminds you you’re alive. It doesn’t demand anything. It just sits beside you for a while and quietly says, “Feel this.”
I think we all carry a bit of loneliness. But back in Vancouver, mine felt louder. It came from spending my days in front of a screen, buried in Zoom calls and Slack conversations—constantly communicating, yet starved of real connection. I was talking to people, but not with them. That kind of loneliness didn’t whisper—it shouted: Move. Get up. Get out.
Now, halfway across the world, I feel a quiet alignment. Like I’ve finally arrived in a place where I’m meant to be.
At least for now.