when i was still early in the college, i knew this Japanese guy who introduced himself as Ikemi. he never told me his age but i presumed he was in the middle of his twenty. he kept telling me looks could deceive, though. his eyes were slightly wider than most of the Japanese’s and the built was softer than average male had. sometimes he seemed baby-ish to me. we talked in English, but he was stuttering at some words with his thin voice. his English e-mails were perfectly written, though. i guess we shared the same problem with verbal crap.
Ikemi-kun was a freelance photographer and an interior designer. he would send me an e-mail every other day telling me where he had been, attached with some shots he took. with all the boyish softness he possessed, a picture of cherry blossom tree with a poem never failed to weaken my knees. he was so good with tree pictures that i asked him how he managed to take so many tree pictures but none of them came out usually dull. he said the trees spoke to him and posed for him like the way they did with his grandfather. he wasn’t giggling or laughing when saying that. in the end i believed he really had a connection with the trees.
he helped me translating a washing machine manual once.
then, for a period of time, i couldn’t get ahold of any internet connection. when i got back online, there were some e-mails from him with the last one saying he would understand if i would never answer his mails or talked over the voip anymore. he said he was sorry for whatever he might have said wrong. i went “wait… wait… wait… you got it all wrong” and replied that mail frantically. but what did i get? mailer daemon returned it with a message saying that the address didn’t exist.
i was stunned with the truth that after so many months we got together we never actually exchanged information of who we really were. no real names, no snail-mail address, no alternative e-mail address, no phone numbers, no particular name of company or official workshop… i was blind. all i had was merely an ‘Ikemi’ which returned thousands of results that i tried to narrow to the town where he lived and all those clues of places he visited. zero. dead ends. the universe had swallowed him whole. not even a self picture of his appeared. he zipped himself tightly.
Ikemi-kun was the strangest loss i ever experienced.
day thirty five of 365