SILENCE AND SHADOWS IN MONOCHROME JAPAN
Why Must We Be So Loud?
Confronting the Western futility of always having something to say
I shuffled onto the red leather booth in the mid-August humidity of Kyoto. It had just started to drizzle outside, again. The overcast mist made the smell of ramen, gyozas, and fried rice all the more appealing.
The salty smell of heat was an antidote to the rain, though simultaneously a reminder of the incessant humidity.
My family and I had just finished rafting in the Hozu River and were ready to slurp into something hearty.
When I think back to that specific day, and my summer in Japan in general, I don’t remember the colors all too well.
The weather was overcast for the most part, and even when the sun was out, the humidity worked like a grey blanket, fitting everything under its monochrome lens.
Maybe it was the foreignness of everything — the language, the characters, and the lack of loud noises. I don’t know what it was exactly, but something about it made me quieter, more observant, and more attentive to the nuances in the shadows.
