Akihito Kimura Last night, I had a dream that stayed with me.
It felt like I was running away.
And yet, at the same time, it felt like I was returning.
In the dream, I had been pushed to participate in something like a debate event, held inside a modern high-rise building.
Somewhere inside, there was a person others described as “dangerous,” and I found myself being chased.
At first, I was truly running away.
But at some point, without clearly deciding it, I began going down the stairs on my own will.
Eventually, I reached the first floor.
There was an exit.
But for some reason, I knew: this wasn’t it.
So I kept going—down into the basement.
When I reached the lowest level, there was an automatic door.
It opened, almost as if it had been waiting for me.
I stepped through without hesitation.
And then—
I was outside.
A quiet night street stretched out before me.
There was nothing extraordinary about it. No brilliance, no spectacle.
And yet, I felt something unmistakable.
A sense of familiarity.
A sense of ease.
“This is how it connects,” I remember thinking.
Then I woke up.
Looking back, the dream feels like a reflection of where I am now.
If I had been seeking freedom in the conventional sense,
I would have gone upward.
If I had followed the expected route,
I would have exited through the first floor.
But instead, I went down—deep into what might be called the unconscious.
And there, the door opened effortlessly.
Not by force, but as if it were always meant to.
What I found beyond it was not some idealized world,
but something much quieter.
Something… familiar.
Perhaps the direction the world expects us to take,
and the direction our inner selves are moving toward,
are sometimes exact opposites.
The figure that chased me in the dream is often interpreted as a projection—
an energy that forces change,
or a part of the past that must be left behind.
At first, it felt like fear.
Like something imposed on me.
But somewhere along the way, it became a choice.
Looking back, it mirrors the process of stepping away from the structure of being an employee—
from hesitation, to clarity.
What I found at the end was not something new.
It was something I had always known.
A quiet sense of belonging.
An unspoken familiarity.
By following what lies beneath conscious thought—
beyond what is considered “normal” or “correct”—
I didn’t lose my connection to the world.
If anything, I found a way to connect more naturally.
I’ve never been drawn to what simply shines on the surface.
Instead, I often think of a certain story.
After the fall of a great kingdom, an old man was once asked about a renowned strategist who had served it.
Despite being respected by both allies and enemies, he replied simply:
“He seemed like a very ordinary man.”
There is something in that which resonates deeply with me.
Not brilliance, not spectacle—
but a quiet strength that does not need to present itself.
I’m glad that what I found beyond that door
was not a dazzling “correct” world,
but a quiet, unassuming place that feels like my own.
Since last summer, I’ve been working six days a week,
from morning until night, fully immersed in what I do.
And yet, I don’t feel exhausted.
If anything, there’s a steady sense of energy—
not intense or overwhelming,
but constant and grounded.
Perhaps it’s because this movement is not driven by obligation,
but by something that came from opening that door within.
People around me often say, “Don’t push yourself too hard.”
And I understand the kindness behind those words.
At the same time, there is a part of me that continues forward,
quietly, on its own energy.
Holding both of these at once—
the care I receive,
and the force that moves me forward—
feels like the right distance between myself and the world.
At least, for now.
Perhaps I simply move best when the direction comes from within.
Not because I resist the outside,
but because I need to arrive there in my own way.
