Yesterday, I went to see a movie called National Treasure. Apparently, it’s become a huge hit in Japan right now. The story follows the life of a man who devotes himself to mastering traditional performing arts, spanning about fifty years of his life. It was really interesting, and I’m glad I watched it. However, I’ve always been bad at remembering people’s names and faces, and since many of the characters looked quite similar, I sometimes lost track of who was who. It was especially confusing because each character was played by different actors as a child and as an adult. More than once, I caught myself thinking: “Wait, which one grew up to become that person?” If only I had a better memory for faces and names, I could have enjoyed this great movie even more. From here on, this contains spoilers, so if you haven’t seen it yet, you might not want to read further. The movie basically doesn’t really have a villain—everyone is portrayed as a good person. Instead, what the protagonist struggles against keeps changing over time. Sometimes it’s his own inner self, and sometimes it’s something else entirely. The film depicts his fifty years of constantly facing these shifting challenges and conflicts. Because of that, I could sometimes project myself onto him and see my own struggles reflected in his. I was so absorbed in the story that I hardly touched the popcorn I had bought at the theater.

Today, I experienced waterfall meditation (takigyō) for the first time in my life. I joined the volunteer group I was part of during my university days, and took part in it together with the children. It had been a long time since I last joined the group, but the kids still remembered my name. When I arrived at the meeting place and they came running up to me calling my name, I was really happy. The plan was to do a short hike and then practice waterfall meditation at the spot, but the hike turned out to be harder than I expected. I probably sweated more than any other time this year, and my legs became completely exhausted. Even now, as I write this diary, my legs feel heavy and swollen, and I’m honestly very tired. I don’t have the energy to write much more tonight, so I’ll head to bed soon. I should add—though it’s only self-diagnosed—that I have something like Restless Legs Syndrome. When my legs are swollen and tired, I can’t stay still because of the uncomfortable sensation. I’m actually feeling that right now, and I’m forcing myself to finish writing this diary while my legs keep bothering me.

Today marks one full month since I started writing this diary. As someone who usually loses interest quickly and struggles to keep things going, I’m surprised that I’ve managed to spend several minutes every day writing this diary for an entire month. I think what makes it enjoyable and sustainable is pairing photos with words. Without this diary, my days would probably just pass by and fade from memory. But by looking back and writing about each day, I feel like I’m giving a little bit of meaning to it, and that gives me a sense of fulfillment. This diary has also made me want to take at least one photo every day, and writing captions for those photos reveals aspects of the day I might not have noticed otherwise. It makes each day feel longer, fuller. For anyone who feels bored with their “unchanging” routine, I’d recommend keeping a record like this, with photos and words. You might realize that your days aren’t so monotonous after all—there are little changes and hidden moments that make each day unique. Today, while taking a walk, I happened to come across a Bon Odori festival. It made me realize that summer vacation for kids usually lasts until the end of August, so this must be the climax of their summer. I found myself reminiscing about when I was a child, always rushing to finish my summer homework around this time of year.

After returning from my 13-day trip to Mongolia, I started my first day back at work. Everyone at the office asked me how Mongolia was. I was really happy that they wanted to hear about it, but I found it frustrating that I couldn’t put the experience into words well enough to share in just a short time. I saw such incredible landscapes and had so many unforgettable experiences, yet I can only seem to express about one-hundredth of what it was really like. Of course, there are things that only those who went can truly understand, but still—I wished I could have conveyed it better. That said, the trip was for myself, so I’m not too bothered. I also had fish for the first time in two weeks. During the whole 13 days in Mongolia, I hadn’t eaten any fish, so ever since I got back to Japan I’d been craving sushi. Finally eating some delicious sushi today felt amazing. My stomach is still a little upset from the trip, but that didn’t matter—the sushi was wonderful. It made me realize: if I start missing Japanese food after just two weeks, then people who go abroad for a year of study must be really incredible.

I’m back in Japan. On the flight, I usually enjoy listening to music while looking out at the scenery, but this time I was so exhausted that I ended up sleeping the whole way. I kind of regret it. And just like that, my 13-day trip has come to an end. If I had spent those 13 days just working as usual, I probably wouldn’t remember much of them at all. But these past 13 days were so full of unforgettable moments that I know I’ll carry them with me for the rest of my life. I saw landscapes I’ll never forget, and I made friends I’ll never forget. Even the stomach problems and the rough toilet situations will stay with me as memories. It feels like I’ve gained something priceless—something money can’t buy. That’s what makes me glad I travel, and what keeps me wanting to go on the next trip. Every time I travel, I ask myself: “Did this trip change me?” On the way home, it always feels like it did. But after a week, I usually find myself back in the same routine, living the same way as before. In reality, maybe nothing about me really changes. Still, even if I don’t come back a “new person,” the friends I made and the memories I carry are real—and that alone makes me different from before. Those memories become a kind of safety net for me, and they make me just a little stronger. For example, the next time I get a stomachache and rush to the bathroom, I’ll probably think back to Mongolia—the stomach pain I had there, and those terrible toilets I had no choice but to use. Compared to that, I’ll realize how lucky and comfortable my situation is now. That perspective, I think, will pop up in many other parts of my life too. And I kind of like that slightly stronger version of myself. (But I want to emphasize: I’ve learned that a trip doesn’t magically change my personality. I don’t expect to be “reborn” after traveling. I’ll go back to my usual life, and honestly, I’m fine with that.) Mongolia was truly worth it. For my next adventure, maybe I’ll go to the African savanna, or Switzerland, or Egypt.