Pathway to Japanese Literature

There are times when melancholy settles over my chest like an eclipsing sun.
There’s no clear reason.
Petty matters accumulate like clouds veiling the mind’s blue sky.
Then I grow listless, sinking into pensive gloom.
It had been this way since morning—last night I’d accompanied Father’s friend, drinking whiskey and shōchū until sodden.
Father had been abstaining lately while his friend drank voraciously, leaving me summoned as drinking companion.
Afterward I slept deeply, yet stirred awake at midnight.
The dim glow of a two-candlepower bulb made the room feel submerged.
There in that aqueous light lay my daughter’s small head beside my wife’s disheveled hair.
Some mournful impulse made me turn toward the storm shutters—outside lay profound stillness, dew gathering in the air, a lone cricket singing.
Just one.
Listening to its cry, I slept again.

It came back to me in the morning.
I still felt traces of alcohol lingering in my brain—tobacco tasted foul, food tasted foul—and while absently following newspaper type with my eyes,I heard within my heart midnight’s cricket chirping.

On dining table’s small plates,the wife ate things herself and made their child eat too.
Three-year-old girl still couldn’t grasp chopsticks well,wielding spoon instead.
When mother plucked simmered potato piece offering toward girl,daughter shook head.

“It’s potato.”
“You used to like them.”
“Don’t want it anymore?”

“Over there, over there.”

The daughter is reaching toward the other dishes.

“You get bored so quickly.”
“Next comes something delicious—sweet potatoes.”
“Sweet potatoes—you know them, right?”
“Oh! And Aya-chan hasn’t tried roasted sweet potatoes yet.”
“They’re so tasty.”
“They say they’ll allow roasted sweet potato stands this year—when they come, I’ll buy you plenty.”

My wife kept explaining about steaming-hot roasted sweet potatoes.
She was telling Ayako while also telling herself.
She’d seen in the paper that sweet potato vending would be permitted this year.

Suddenly, I found myself on the verge of tears.
It was not mere sentiment.
Roasted sweet potatoes, roasted sweet potatoes.
My wife, who seemed to find some semblance of joy in such trivial things, and Ayako, who would likely seek out the same small comforts—they were pitiable.
The very existence of this mother and daughter was pitiable.
The pitiable nature rebounded even onto myself, connected to them by blood.

I stuffed the small cloth-wrapped lunchbox into my briefcase and hurried toward the train station. Roasted sweet potatoes—that’s all it ever was. “There’s no soup in today’s lunchbox,” my wife had said, but what side dishes could possibly be inside? Even that worn-out briefcase existed solely to maintain a salaryman’s facade—nothing of substance lay within.

They were trivial matters, yet depending on how one dwelled on them, they could seep deep into one’s being—these were what had birthed my melancholy. Sinking into this gloom, forcing my heavy head up to timidly survey the world—human society appeared pitiful, every person wretched. The sensation of bearing some crushing weight, dragging some massive chain while trudging onward—this resonated within me, within others, within everyone. Literary types might call it “human emotion” or some such nonsense, but for a mere salaryman, nothing proved more wretched than human emotion. Was it physical exhaustion? Or mental exhaustion?

He grew exhausted on the train—so packed he couldn’t move—and then exhausted again at the office.
He would sort and systematize scraps of paper cluttered with Arabic numerals before passing them on to the clerk.
The clerk was silently transcribing.
If the carbon paper’s ink smudged, they would be scolded by the supervisor, so they moved the pen tip mechanically.
From beyond the partition came the intermittent clatter of typewriters.
There were occasional bursts of faint laughter, but even those sounded utterly bored.

It was a peculiar company.
They were divided into separate companies—Statistics, Commerce, Manufacturing—but all jumbled together in the same building under one origin.
There was even a sales agency department.
The work commissioned by the Occupation forces had recently been taken over by the other side, leaving personnel redundant.
The lunch break dragged listlessly until around two o'clock.
Even this became a source of tedium in such an office.

The typewriters always clattered to life first.
Leaning my cheek against my hand by the window, listening to that mechanical racket, I suddenly remembered my sister living in Chiba.
When I'd visited her once, she'd been pedaling her sewing machine furiously.
She had a son who'd just entered elementary school that year.
Even her habitual gestures came back to me vividly.

“Toshio-san, how are you doing?”

A faint yet broad smile played at her lips as she stared fixedly in my direction.

Gazing now at this vision of my sister lingering behind my eyelids, something pierced my chest—her figure seemed so lonely and fragile. Her husband was a scholar, yet with no notable writings to his name and mired in poverty—how would they keep living like this? They might fall ill too. Even the name Hisako felt ephemeral somehow. If her very existence was this tenuous, then her child must be no different. What could have been packed in that boy’s lunchbox today?

“What are you smirking about, Tashiro-kun?”

Kasahara suddenly called out to me, startling me. When his words finally registered, I grew flustered. I couldn’t have been grinning like that—I had been steeped in the fragility of human existence, the melancholy of blood ties. Then there was the matter of my nephew’s lunchbox side dishes. My own lunch today contained kamaboko and grilled tidbits—leftovers from last night’s drinking snacks—but they tasted surprisingly good. If I had unconsciously smiled over such a meager moment of contentment, how utterly pathetic that would be.

I frowned and turned around. And this time, consciously, I put on a melancholy smile.

“Atomic bombs or whatever—I don’t care.”
“It has nothing to do with me.”

I was vaguely listening to Kasahara and the others discussing atomic bombs. It was a time when newspaper articles about how the Soviet Union’s possession of atomic bombs had been publicly announced to the world, creating new ripples in international politics, were becoming common topics of conversation. However, everyone’s opinions never went beyond the bounds of newspaper articles; they were merely churning out baseless speculations. And strangely enough, even while fearing atomic bombs, a mood that seemed to desire war hung in the air. Under the assumption that Japan was no longer a party to war and thus would not have atomic bombs dropped on it, they coldly surmised that a war might break out.

Where had peace gone?

“Even so, what about the war?” said Kasahara.

“Even war has nothing to do with me either.”

My melancholy took on a sarcastic edge; I said nothing more and returned to my desk.

The seat to the side was empty. Horita's seat. After being summoned by the managing director, he hadn't returned for a long time. He was a peculiar man. That his work was sloppy and negligent—this was the unanimous opinion of the executives regarding him. He was often scolded, but always remained composed. There were times when he arrived late in the morning, but he never hurried home in the evening. He spoke little, was lazy, and carried himself with a dismissive air.

Horita returned to his seat, his normally pale face now even paler. He rested his elbows on the desk, a strange bitter smile on his lips as he blew out cigarette smoke.

“What’s wrong?”
The pushy Kasahara was first to ask.

“Oh, just a voluntary resignation proposal.”
He smiled bitterly again.

That bitter smile was truly unnatural.
I had rarely seen such a smile.
His hair was cropped short; severe nearsightedness made his eyes bulge from their sockets; his cheeks were pallid yet doughy; his chin round and stubby.
Quivering wrinkles trembled faintly on those cheeks as he kept his protruding eyes fixed ahead, stretched his tightly pressed lips into a flat line, crumpled his philtrum oddly, and smiled that bitter smile.
Even had he maintained it indefinitely, he wouldn’t have laughed or wept—it left only a servile impression of someone enduring humiliation.
The smile vanished instantly, but cast a dark shadow across my heart.

Horita was exhaling cigarette smoke.
No one spoke for a while.
Before long, Kasahara asked again.

“Did you agree to it?”

Horita did not turn toward Kasahara and answered while looking out the window.

“Let them talk their fill—in the end, I went along with it.”
“Anyway, I know I’m going to get the axe.”
“I’ll get some severance pay even if it’s just scraps, and switch workplaces.”

It was an era of rampant layoffs.
The government was conducting staff reductions.
In the private sector too, there were staff reductions.
And this company had already set things in motion; in our department, it had been tacitly understood that Horita would be made the scapegoat.
Although an employees’ union had been formed, its regulations were slipshod, and in a company structured like this one, it was utterly powerless against management.
Moreover, they had another means—transferring people to other sister companies to put them in dire straits.
There was an instance about a month ago where their colleague Harano had been thoroughly distressed by this kind of workplace transfer.
Horita now came up with a smooth way of phrasing it as a "workplace transfer."

But what did he intend to do now? As for severance pay, it would be no more than fifty thousand or at most a hundred thousand yen. What could possibly be done with that kind of money? He had a wife and two children. He apparently had no assets. Perhaps he had some plan in mind all along, but even that must have been uncertain. Everything was uncertain. He had already begun organizing his documents, but glancing at him—at his very existence—out of the corner of my eye, I felt an overwhelming sense of uncertainty.

The atmosphere of the entire room was oppressive and melancholic.
By whose hand had a pot of wild chrysanthemums been placed on the small table by the window.
On the cluster of wilted pale red flowers, two or three flies perched motionlessly.
The flowers would eventually wither away.
The flies would eventually be unable to fly.

I threw down my work and blew out cigarette smoke.
As if by prior arrangement, everyone was blowing out cigarette smoke.
Yet they all stayed silent, turning their faces away from one another.

A circular notice came around.
It carried Chief Umeda’s signature with instructions for everyone to sign after reading.

It has been reported that today, Mr. Horita was recommended by the managing director to resign amicably and has agreed to do so.
It is anticipated that such situations may continue to occur in the future.
In light of this, we would like to convene our own discussion meeting during tomorrow’s break from noon to one o’clock to reinforce our positions.
We request everyone’s attendance without exception.
Furthermore, those who may wish to tender voluntary resignations at this time are asked to submit confidential requests to the undersigned by tomorrow morning after due consideration.
Through this measure, we aim to eliminate coercive pressures regarding involuntary resignations and ensure all employees may devote themselves to their duties with assurance.
Kindly note the discussion meeting accordingly.
End of document.

What a bizarre memo.
I caught Horita adding his signature to it with that servile grin of his, then quickly looked away.
It wasn’t anger I felt so much as utter wretchedness.

Time dragged on interminably.
When the clock struck quitting time, I sprang up first—poised and ready.

Stepping into the street’s fading sunlight, I finally drew a full breath.
Then Kasahara came running after me.

“Hey, how ’bout joining me for a drink?”

I frowned and remained silent.

“Should we have shōchū or beer?”
“I’ve got the money.”

He always strangely had money.
He decided on a beer hall by himself and bought a small bottle of whiskey on the way.
He took perverse pride in his stingy method of drinking—dripping whiskey into a beer mug.

In the autumn chill, the beer hall was empty.

“What do you think about today’s notice from Umeda?”

He irritably gulped down his beer.
To my indifferent attitude, he seemed even more incensed.

“What the hell is this ‘discussion meeting’?”
“Why not make it a union meeting?”
“To hope for even the slightest amicable resignation...” Stupid! In this age of unemployment, who in their right mind would want that even a little?’
“It’s nothing but forcing out supposed volunteers to cooperate with staff reductions.”
“It’s not just that bastard’s idea alone.”
“It’s definitely a colluded charade with the Managing Director.”

Then he prattled on about all sorts of things.
Even if we spoke of union activities, we who were confined within the office might as well have been putting up an empty front—we couldn’t do anything.
As for the actual state of the entire company, we didn’t understand a thing.
Whether the entire company was even operating at a deficit remained questionable, and indeed, on the third floor, the walls had been freshly repainted with opulent chairs and tables installed—what new schemes the company might be plotting, we couldn’t begin to fathom.
We... we...

Listening to him talk, with his incessant repetition of "we" that resounded like a plea, I felt oddly melancholy.
It wasn’t so much a complaint as indignation—but then, how exactly did he himself intend to act?

“At tomorrow’s discussion meeting, why don’t we drop a bombshell?”

We... after all, it wasn't the singular 'I'. Strength comes from unity, but unity must depend on individual will. That fundamental thing seemed to be lacking in us. He was cheerful, and I was melancholy. When viewed from the depths of melancholy, his cheerfulness seemed like that of a doll, and no sympathy welled up—which only made me feel all the more lonely.

“What’s that guy Horita planning to do with such meager severance pay?”

Cheerful Kasahara still had room in his heart to sympathize with Horita.

"I could at least manage to become a roasted sweet potato vendor," I said.

"What? Roasted sweet potatoes..."

"A roasted sweet potato vendor, a roasted sweet potato vendor."

Loneliness curdled into venomous words, and that venom seeped bitterly into my own heart.

After several beer mugs and the small bottle of whiskey were emptied, I parted ways with Kasahara.

As he walked along the edge of a canal on a dark night—the stars above seeming to plummet into its blackened waters—something like fear took hold of him.

From near the city center, he would take the JNR train, transfer to a private railway train midway, and it took quite a long time to get home.

Near the back exit of the transfer station, there was a house that served good Japanese sake cheaply.
Whether in a brimming glass or a sake flask with cups—either was fine.
In the early evening, customers would crowd in, but as it got late, it became deserted.
I developed a habit of stopping there at times when I’d had just enough to drink or when I felt a sense of unbearable frustration.

When he casually stepped inside, there were few customers.

"Good evening.
"You're late tonight, aren't you."

Misako didn't smile, but her voice carried a friendly tone.

"Hey, long time."

“Oh my, ‘long time’... You’re already drunk?”

When I thought about it, I had stopped by briefly both the day before yesterday and the day before that as well.
But somehow, the sense of "a while" felt genuine.
Everything seemed to be far away.
Even Misako and Sayoko appeared distant.
Melancholy is a fog that separates me from the outside world.

Misako was as ever—yes, unchanged from two days prior—with her slender high-nosed face, eyes shaded by thick lashes, tall and thin. A war widow, she had become the right-hand woman to the middle-aged proprietress of this house. She rarely showed a smile, but her voice carried a cheerful tone. The customers called her Misako-san. Her kimono was a striped pattern with purple as the main color.

Sayoko remained as ever—round-faced, plump, and always smiling. She had slightly nearsighted-looking eyes but wasn’t wearing glasses. During the war, she had come to Tokyo from Saitama Prefecture as a conscripted female factory worker and ended up staying to become a hostess. The customers called her Sayo-chan. Her kimono had a floral pattern with red as its main color.

While gazing at them as if seeing them in a new light, I sipped the sake from my glass. And in my heart, I was gazing at something else—what could Ayako be doing right now? What could my wife be doing right now? What could my sister be doing now? What could my sister’s child be doing now? What had become of Horita since then? Was Kasahara still drinking somewhere? And then so-and-so... So-and-so... Those visions appeared and vanished, vanished and reappeared, as if seen through a fog. Strangely, neither my father’s figure nor my sister’s mother-in-law’s—none of the elderly’s figures appeared in my mind. Is it that the elderly and the young are fated to remain distant from one another? No—the elderly have firmly put down roots in their way of life. Young people are the ones whose long future lives remain unstable, precarious, and pitiable. Young salarymen are pitiable. Will there never be an end to people who aren’t economically independent?

Goddamn it.
I tapped the glass on the counter.

"Another cup."

"If you drink that much... You'll make yourself sick."
"Have your drink properly."

Misako spoke while Sayoko attended to the task, bringing over the sake flask and cup to me before giving a faint smile.

They were showing concern for me.
Did that mean I was pitiable too?
Nonsense—they were the ones deserving pity.
War widows, former factory girls—no matter how primly they comported themselves working in a place like this, where did they have any foothold, any anchor to cling to?

“Hey, Misako-san—you too, Sayo-chan—quit this place.”

“Oh my, why?”

“Let me tell you a good idea.”
“Start a roasted sweet potato business.”

“A roasted sweet potato vendor…”

Misako laughed uncharacteristically.

“This year’s sweet potato harvest is abundant, you know.”
“There’s more than enough.”
“That’s where you start a roasted sweet potato stand.”
“Steaming hot freshly baked sweet potatoes… Wouldn’t that be something?”

“Would there really be people who buy such things?”

Misako’s words were already distracted. She didn’t understand.

“Anyone’ll buy them.
“Because it’s novel.”
“Cook ’em up nice and sell cheap to the kids.”
“Sell to girls and boys—elementary schoolers.”
“Sell to schoolgirls too.”
“Sell to young brides, young wives—all of ’em.”
“That’s where life’s happiness begins.”

I grew sad and lowered my face over the cup.

“My, what tremendous happiness.”

“That’s right.”
“Happiness begins with roasted sweet potatoes.”
“That’s why I’m sad.”
“Quit this damn bar.”
“Become roasted sweet potato vendors.”
“Steaming hot and fresh from the oven—isn’t that happiness itself?”

Misako focused intently and stared at me.
I felt unable to lift my face.

“Is there some connection between roasted sweet potatoes and alcohol?”

“What connection could there be?”
“Alcohol… everyone who drinks it is a fool.”
“They’re stragglers from happiness.”
And arrogant.
“Roasted sweet potatoes… just roasted sweet potatoes.”

I drained my cup in one gulp and poured another from the sake flask, causing the liquor to overflow and stream across the counter.
As I watched its path, there lay a light brown supple leather glove that the alcohol had lightly touched.
Sayoko rushed over, brushed the droplets from the glove, and wiped the counter with a cloth.

It was only just October—too early for gloves.
When I looked at the man who had received the glove—I hadn't noticed when he'd entered—he was a long-haired youth wearing a black double-breasted coat, a reddish tie, and tinted glasses.
He stared hard at me.

"Mr. Sweet Potato, you go and dirty someone's belongings. Don't you think there oughta be an apology?"

He didn’t seem drunk yet.

“Well, let’s have a drink.”

“What? You think you can drink with roasted sweet potatoes as bar snacks? This is how you make amends.”

It was a splendidly swift move.
I received a slap across the cheek, tumbled from the chair, and landed on my backside.
It seemed there was a sound against my cheek, but I didn't feel much pain.
Had he struck with deliberate restraint?
The instant that thought crossed my mind, I felt utterly wretched.
I staggered to my feet, grabbed the counter, mustered a servile smile so defiant it surprised even myself, and stared fixedly at him.
He averted his eyes from me with just a glance.
Misako had grabbed his arm across the counter, but he quietly freed himself from her grip, tossed down two bills, and without so much as a glance in my direction, walked out with deliberate calm.

“You didn’t get hurt?”
“That man was scary.”

To Misako’s whispered words, I returned another servile smile.

“I wanted to drink with him.
“I’ll drink that guy’s share too.”

The more I put on a front, the more wretched I became.

The middle-aged pair of customers kept talking about something, feigning ignorance.

I was unsteady on my feet and couldn’t settle.
With Sayoko lending me a hand, I entered the small three-tatami room to the side.

In my flickering consciousness, where time seemed fragmented, I lingered over my own servile smile from earlier. Now looking back, I no longer felt wretched at all—rather, I sensed a calm tranquility. It felt like sinking deeper into melancholy’s depths, yet finally settling where one belonged.

Simultaneously, Horita’s servile bitter smile surfaced in my mind. It overlapped with mine before shifting apart. Either way, the two were distinctly different. His was a bitter smile. Mine was a smile. Where did that difference lie? No matter how I probed, it resembled solving a puzzle ring—utterly lacking clues.

"This is trivial."
"It was just my drunken mind playing tricks."
Having realized this, I sat up abruptly from where I’d been lying sprawled out.

On the small dining table were a sake flask and cup, along with a medium plate bearing nori-wrapped sushi.
The sake made sense, but what about the sushi?
Did I order this?
The glossy black surface of the nori felt unbearably lonely, and I picked up my sake cup.

Suddenly—so suddenly that it startled me—Sayoko entered without a sound.

She had brought a coarse tea teapot.

“The alcohol is poison now.”
“You should eat the sushi.”

Into the bowl, she poured steaming hot tea.
Sadness surged, and my whole body trembled.

He sidled up to her plump form, laid his face on her lap, clung closer still, and buried his face in her chest.
Her quietly sitting body twitched faintly before warmly enveloping me.

“I’m sad.”
“I want to cry.”

With the words, tears truly began to flow.

“Who are you?
“Oh, Sayo-chan.”

I cried again.
“You understand me dontcha?
” “Im lonesome n blue.
” “Peoplere just plain sorrowful.
” “Got somethin swellin up here—like love maybe—n gotta spill it tsomebody.”

“No—you mustn’t speak so loudly.”

“Yeah, I know, I know.”

I kept clinging to her.

“I want to tell someone.
“I want to pour out this heart full of love to someone.
“But everyone’s far away—I’m all alone.
“You... Oh, Sayo-chan.
“You understand, don’t you?
“You understand this feeling, don’t you?”

“Don’t make such a loud noise again.”

I said in a hushed voice.

“You’re warm.”
“You’re really warm.”
“I want to become warm like you too.”
“Warm me up, warm me up more.”
“You mustn’t let go.”
“I won’t let go of you now.”

I clung to her, embraced her torso and waist, buried my face in her chest, and shed tears. She was leaning over me, remaining still. Her heart’s throbbing could be heard, and the warmth of her breath could be felt. But I myself felt my heartbeat fading away, my breath seeming to vanish—only my tears remained hot. I slipped my hand into her sleeve and ran it along the skin of her arm.

“Your hands are cold.”

“That’s right, my hands are cold, and my body is cold. You’re warm. Warm me up.”

Still clinging to her, he felt as if he were losing consciousness.

“Sayo-chan.”

It was Misako’s crystal-clear voice.

I came to my senses and sat up.
Sayoko kept holding my hand tightly as she stood and left.
With a dazed feeling, I drank down more liquor.
Sayoko came back right away and told me about the train schedule.
That's right—if I missed the last train home now, I wouldn't be able to return.
Like waking from a dream, my head cleared and I put on my shoes.

When he ran up onto the station platform, his drunkenness suddenly surged back and he staggered.
There was still plenty of time before his train would depart.
He walked to the very edge of the platform and crouched there catching his breath.

The tracks formed an elevated line, the rails and ground beneath them seeming to float in midair. Red and blue signal lights dotted the darkness like enormous stars fallen to earth. Beyond stretched a desolate expanse of night. As he stared, a massive shape materialized—drawing near only to dissolve like smoke. Was it a colossal wheel? A titanic gear? An endless belt? A mighty motor? An airplane propeller? No—it was all these things at once. Rotating with fierce speed yet utterly silent, it surged relentlessly onward before vanishing without trace... It felt like vertigo.

“Mr. Tashiro.”

Sure enough, there was a voice; when he turned around, Sayoko was standing there. She was not an illusion.

“What’s wrong?”

“It was dangerous—that’s why I followed you.”

That couldn’t be right, yet there she stood before his eyes.

He couldn't utter a word.

She drew close to me, crouched down, and leaned her body against my shoulder.

“Come again tomorrow or some time soon, okay? Tonight’s no good… but anytime’s fine. Hey, take me somewhere. I want to go on a trip.”

What on earth was she saying?
What was she thinking?
In the dim light, I stared wide-eyed and looked at her; she wasn't smiling at all, her expression serious.

“But is that wrong?”
“You have a wife, don’t you?”
“I don’t mind, but…”
“Alright, I believe you.”
“I’ll believe you too, okay?”

What have I done?
I wanted to strike both myself and her, to trample us into the ground.

Her warmth revived in my heart.
But it could have been anyone's warmth.
It wasn't necessarily hers after all.
Yet when confessing the thoughts of a heart sunken in solitary sorrow, she was likely the most fitting person.
How could I have said such things to anyone?
It wasn't something I could say to my wife, to Misako, to my sister, to men of course, to the company typists, or even to the streetwalkers around here.
If I were to say it, it would only sound absurd.
I was able to say it to Sayoko while crying.
It wasn't merely because I was drunk.
After all, just as her warmth hadn't belonged to anyone, she must have been no one in particular to me.
No one—what on earth does that mean?
What did it mean that I hadn't sought even a single kiss?
She was nothing more than a human being to me.

Even so, to her, I was not merely a human being.
It was none other than Tashiro Toshio—a single man.

I stood up.

“It’s okay.
There’s no need to worry.”

And I grasped her hand and shook it but immediately let go.

Stupid. What was okay about any of this?
My feelings—even if I told her, they would never be understood.

He suppressed the urge to let out a wail and exhaled deeply.
He exhaled repeatedly.
Even to myself, I reeked of alcohol.
He swung his briefcase wildly with both hands and strode about with large steps.

A train arrived at the platform.
Just as it was departing, I jumped aboard and saw Sayoko through the window glass.
Her round face lingering there as she looked up seemed to have abandoned all expression, merely floating palely in the dimness.

The train was relatively empty.
I sank down onto the seat, crossed my arms, and lowered my face.

As for misunderstanding—I don’t intend to evade responsibility on that account.
However, if this were a misunderstanding, what a sad misunderstanding it would be.
How could I reach a resolution?

My melancholy only deepens.
This seems to be the melancholy of humanity itself.
To drive this away, I must discard humanity, or else, or else...
Ah, that giant phantom I saw in the darkness at the station platform—I should climb aboard that thing and remake myself anew.

As I kept thinking, I let out a boozy yawn and was repulsed by myself.
But even that differed from an ordinary one—it was a melancholy yawn.
Awkward, pitiful, and utterly incapable of depending on myself.

After getting off the train, I didn't head straight home but wandered around the area, collapsed in a field, and wept.

There was certainly something wrong with me today.
Yet it was precisely at such times that the heart became laid bare.
I found my exposed heart painfully raw.