ミツバチの視線

A Bee’s Vision and My Labyrinth - Scroll for English.

26.03.29

ミツバチの視線と、わたしの迷路

最大の気づきは、物心ついた頃からずーっと客観視ができず、というか、大きい劣等感のフィルターで、全てを映像化していて 現実との相関に問題、いや、完全な乖離だったと。

外界には、とても美しくファッショナブルでスマートな人々や空間が広がっていて、その楽しそうでキラキラしたエネルギーに圧倒されつづけ、家では、テレビの中以外(当時はインターネットも一般的ではなく)は、荒い現実が体全体に滲透するかのような毎日。
孤軍奮闘な恋をしているとき以外は、ただただ怠惰に、またそれが自己嫌悪に、を繰り返していた気がします。

20代まで、憧れは憧れのまま、断続的に、ドラマや雑誌の理想像をコピーする日々。

30代には、模倣もプロフェッショナルな域に達し、あらゆるシーンの、それぞれのパズルが揃った、のが30代後半から。

その後、
真似 → 好き嫌い → に落とし込まれ、断捨離、年齢と共に自我というか深部が見えてくる。そこからは、らしい、らしくない → 断捨離と繰り返し。そんな分別作業な２０年が経ったような。

つい先日、あ、完成した...と。突然の、深い熟成感。でも身体はふわっと浮立つという、「それなり」の「答え」が上から静かに降りてきた。
驚くことには、それからじわっとワクワクする気持ちが継続しています。

逃げようとしても、逃げられず、
立ち向かおうとしても、都度都度くじける、ようなことがあったとしても、それは自分らしさの到達点に向かっています。

目に見える景色には、それぞれに、大きな意味があると思う。

ミツバチには紫外線が見えるそうです。そして、花びらの奥の「蜜のある場所」も紫外線模様として浮かぶのです。

29 Mar. 2026

A Bee’s Vision and My Labyrinth

The realisation, uncomfortably personal: from the time I was old enough to be aware of anything, I had never once seen myself clearly. Everything was filtered — projected, really — through an enormous lens of inferiority. My relationship to reality wasn’t distorted. It was severed.
The world outside was full of beautiful, fashionable, effortlessly intelligent people and spaces. I was perpetually overwhelmed by that bright, glittering energy — the way everyone else seemed to be having such a good time. And then I would come home. There, beyond the television screen — the internet wasn’t yet part of ordinary life — a rougher reality seeped into every part of me, daily, like damp through walls. Except when I was throwing myself into some solitary, unrequited love, I simply drifted — into idleness, then self-loathing, then idleness again. On repeat.
Through my 20s, longing stayed longing. I copied, on and off — the ideal images from dramas, from magazines — without ever quite making them my own.
By my 30s, the imitation had grown almost professional. And then, in my late 30s, the pieces of each separate scene finally clicked into place.
After that, something shifted: imitation → preference. The shedding began. With age, something deeper — a self, a core — slowly became visible. And from there: this feels like me, this doesn’t → shed again. Twenty years of that quiet sorting work, it seems.
Then, just the other day: oh — it’s finished. Sudden, and deep — like something long fermenting had finally settled. And yet my body felt light, almost lifted. A certain answer, descending quietly from above.
What surprised me most: ever since that moment, a gentle excitement has simply kept going.
Even if you try to run and find you cannot,
even if you turn to face it and are knocked down, again and again —
all of it is moving you toward the place where you become yourself.
Every landscape you can see holds, I believe, a meaning larger than it appears.

Bees, apparently, can see ultraviolet light. And the nectar, hidden deep within the petals — it appears to them as ultraviolet patterns, glowing, already there, waiting to be found.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​