“I used to think that the ‘frog in the well’ was all alone in that well.”
It was lunch break.
Azuma, leaning against the wall of the Rock Club studio and sitting in a gym-style squat on the floor, began talking in a tone that felt like casual small talk.
“Yeah?”
I was sitting on the floor next to her. While I thought it was a very Azuma-like way of speaking, I couldn’t quite grasp her true meaning, so I nodded to encourage her to continue.
“Somehow, I thought that was like you, Konuma, or like me.”
“Me…?”
“Yeah. I thought the well was like your own room or inside your smartphone—a ‘place only for yourself.’ I thought you were in there all by yourself, reading the lyrics you wrote and thinking, ‘Wow, I actually write pretty good lyrics, don’t I!?’”
Azuma let out a dry laugh and continued.
“That’s why, when you jump out of that—out of that place where you’re all alone—and have other people read them, you feel like you’ve stepped out of the well just from that.”
“Ah…”
I started to understand a little bit why she had brought this up.
“But the truth is, that little frog wasn’t actually alone. There were other creatures in the well too. In that tiny community inside the well, they were even praised. …By the way, what other creatures live in a well? Honestly, the idea of a frog being in a well is a bit gross. Isn’t well water supposed to be clean?”
“I don’t know. …Aren’t we getting off track?”
“Really? I didn’t notice at all.”
Azuma looked up slightly.
There was no way that Azuma, with a Japanese deviation score of 84, wouldn’t notice a digression like that.
She was probably just talking about these trivial things to hide something, to paint over it, or to suppress it.
“Well, anyway, those other creatures besides the frog also spend their time inside the well, so they don’t know the great ocean either. Since there are no other creatures around writing lyrics, they just say things like ‘I was so moved’ or ‘I was saved’ without any comparison.”
I pretended not to notice how her voice hitched slightly at the end of her sentence.
“…In that case, it’s only natural to jump for joy, right? Jumping is just what frogs do. I wonder who came up with a proverb that makes fun of that. They must be a really unpleasant person.”
“I guess… so.”
“By the way, apparently there’s a continuation to this proverb. It goes, ‘But it knows the depth of the sky.’ That’s why it’s no good. A depth that only you understand, a depth that reaches no one… something like that doesn't amount to anything.”
She blew a long breath toward the ceiling, smiled slightly, and finally looked at me.
“Well, but I’m glad I at least realized that. Just because one song didn’t reach people doesn’t mean I have to stop music. I can’t afford to be so obsessed with every single song. Did you know? In Japanese, the kanji for ‘to be obsessed’ and ‘to be detained’ are the same.”
“I see.”
To be honest, the talk about kanji wasn't clicking with me; I couldn't focus on it.
“Yeah. No matter how much of a masterpiece it is, or how strong my feelings for it are, that has absolutely nothing to do with whether the world wants it or not. If I got hit hard by it every single time, my body wouldn’t hold up.”
Azuma continued.
“Well, I’m grateful just to have been able to record it, and people at the record company and various others—even if they aren't many—listened to it, so that’s enough.”
Pretending to be understanding.
“No matter what kind of evaluation I get, I’m proud that I was able to write these lyrics.”
Pretending to be fine.
“I have to look forward. It’ll be great if we can make even better songs together from now on.”
She showed me another smile.
But.
“Sorry, Konuma…”
Immediately, her lips began to tremble, and as her expression crumbled, she lowered her face.
“…All of this is a lie.”
Azuma grabbed my arm.
“Hey, Konuma, help me…!”
Her quiet, tearful voice let out a cry of anguish.
“I’m so frustrated I feel like I’m going to die…! Every minute, every second, it hurts like my internal organs are being wrung out like a wet rag…!”
Those words came from her constricted throat in a hoarse voice.
“I thought it was a song that could turn the world upside down. I had Konuma write the best music for lyrics I wrote with all my heart and soul, then I had Sako-hasu put all her feelings into the bass, and had Amane—whose voice I love most in the world—sing it.”
Azuma’s hands gripped my shirt, creating deep wrinkles that looked like they would never come out.
“…So why did it fail to reach anyone like this!?”
“…!”
Her collapsed emotions caused an avalanche.
“This song, these lyrics, are my everything. I gouged out my own heart and used the flowing blood as ink to write those lyrics. I can’t do anything better than this; there’s no way I can write it. No, it’s not about whether I can or can’t write it, or if it's better or worse…”
From what was overflowing in the studio, there was certainly the scent of iron.
“This song was none other than myself…!”
“…Yeah, you’re right.”
In the middle of that torrent, I noticed a single drop falling from my own eyes.
Was the reason I couldn't focus because of this?
“If I can’t turn the world around with that, then… I just can’t do it. My heart and soul, my 100 points, my 1000 points, they don’t even reach the feet of the world, of Japan… no, probably not even this town.”
“Azuma…!”
“Is it really that far away…!?”
Having squeezed out those last words, Azuma collapsed while sobbing.
…I see.
This was the reason why I couldn't say there would be a ‘next time.’
I couldn't think of Azuma’s resolve and determination as just one bullet in a ‘spray and pray’ strategy.
For someone who talks about a ‘next time,’ there was never going to be a ‘next time’ to begin with.
“I’m sorry… for not being able to make it reach.”
Those words, which saved nothing and truly reached nowhere, vanished in an instant inside the hole-filled soundproof room.
At the same time, I was starting to realize.
That’s exactly why we lost.