20/11/2024 Kiri
The words scattered throughout this cityscape feel oddly unbalanced.
Modern, impersonal shops and old, weathered homes reminiscent of a traditional neighborhood alternate as the streets stretch onward. Amidst it all, certain words stand out, radiating an unexpected charm.
For instance, at the entrance of a run-down apartment building—its age evident—a worn plastic sign reads “Royal.” From a distance, it exudes nothing remotely regal (or luxurious), yet somehow, I can’t help but find the apartment endearing.
Or take the women’s clothing store named “Mariya.” Perhaps when the store opened, the name carried a fresh, modern ring to it. Now, however, it feels tinged with a faint nostalgia. Even so, as I murmur the name over and over, I can’t think of a sound more fitting. Not Maria, but Mariya. I’ve never stepped foot inside, yet that single syllable stole my heart.
And then there’s the yakitori shop at the corner, smoke billowing skyward. Amongst the handwritten menu and business hours taped to the wall, a fresh notice had been posted:
“Winter Vacation: Closed from December ○ to January ○.”
Not printed, but written in marker. Seeing this phrase stopped me in my tracks. “New Year’s Holiday” or even just “Closed” would’ve sufficed, but Winter Vacation? On a smoke-stained wall? That’s unfair. While waiting for my skewers to cook, I silently gave the sign a standing ovation in my mind.
The words scattered throughout this cityscape feel oddly unbalanced. And yet, they are lovable. They are beautiful.
Of course, meticulously crafted typography is stunning in its own right. But as for me, I want to keep looking at these irregular, imperfect words a little longer.