Fictional Spring · Dazaiosamu
Like the Certain Coming of Spring
Not until that car had crossed the deserted wastelanddid we realize that we had already entered such a state:picking up floating things heavy with a rank smell.Seeds that had once rotted in spring had created. All manner of—grave-like pits,glances in the night restrained to the utmost,and a kiss that would turn cold by morning.The bathroom radio played all night; no one heard or understood.The heart beat like deep-red insect eggs underground.Inside the groggy head,a momentous and absolute proposition:that a spring as stupid as a virgin man should be fabricated for humankind. Not until that car had crossed those animal-less wastelandsdid we emerge naked from the forest.A special day—witnessing a newborn’s birth and your death like the ash of a fire.A day of rest. A consecrated day. A day of mournful sleep. A day when living things revive—every one of them a moment without you. Gently, gently, I make myself a promise,like the certain coming of spring:the moment I think of you,what a fragile hour that will be for all things.