Shibuya meltdown

Yesterday I went to the bookstore. The smell of brand new magazines brought me back to when I was still 5 ft or shorter.

Every summer when I’d come to visit my grandparents in the Japanese countryside, my mom would take Kana chan and me to the mall. We’d go to the bookstore, and we were allowed to pick a book. I’d go to the manga section and pick up something easy to read or gory enough to scare my aunt. Or I’d go pick up Nylon mag, flip the pages carefully and pack them back in my suitcase at the bottom so they wouldn’t crease.

Yesterday it was just me at the bookstore. There were no Nylon mags. Plus I’m not interested in reading them anymore. There was just the smell of untouched glossy pages. And that’s when I started crying. And I felt misplaced because I can’t actually read a word of any books that were there. I only see letters, I don’t know what they mean.

I wiped my tears before I embarrassed myself. Grabbed a street fashion mag and flipped through the pages because my friends were featured in one of the articles.

And that made me feel so weird.

It made me feel so fucking depleted.

Because now I don’t go to events unless I can get in from the backdoor and my friends get stopped by their fans and I use all my pretty privilege coupons shamelessly and talk big and loud about how I’m the next big thing and shit. My inbox is full of rejection emails. Party on a weekday. No family. Home is wherever I can lock my door.

I’ve been running for too long. I’m exhausted, my money is running out, my grandma sends me handwritten letters but they sit in their envelopes on my windowsill because I can’t read a word.

I wouldn’t trade it for anything but I’m tired. When mama says she’s proud of me I start sobbing because I feel like I just ruined my life. Jumped into a plane and went straight into the city blindfolded. I don’t know what I’m doing, I’m just running in one direction.

But why? I have everything I’ve ever wished for now. But I’m so hungry. I’m starving, because I want more but I can’t carry any more than this but I just want something to happen and god. I always bite off more than I can chew.

Tokyo I’m worn out.

I’m in the middle of a spider web of Tokyo socialites but no one knows how to pronounce Khoury right and people think I’m a fucking girl.

Tokyo you wear me out. Tokyo you wear me the fuck out. Like a varsity jacket that’s been wrecked in the dryer one too many times after getting throw up all over at a house party.

Tokyo’s been wearing me out.

I’m tearing at the seams and put my face between my hands when I’m lucky enough to find a seat on the train. I don’t have time to stitch myself back up. If I did, I’d paint my nails instead, because it’s been so long since last time, or I’d watch a movie or just one episode of Nana.

Tokyo definitely is brutal. Rough. Not cruel, but rough. It’s not violent but it’s hard when winter doesn’t even feel like winter and you have no clue what your plans are beyond next week and no clue what your fate is beyond next month.

It’s terrifying sometimes. No solace to be found outside nor inside.

I’m tired.

You started crying when I said I just wanted to go back for just a little bit. Just for 15 minutes, the time to lay in my old bed, in my old room, so I can rest, forget my life here a little bit.

Because I just wanted to go back for a little bit. Literally just a tiny tiny fucking bit. I just wanna lay down. I’m tired.

Tokyo I’m worn out.

Tonight I’m going to Mitsuki. A club in Shibuya with a bunch of red lights and house music. And I’m not one to drink a lot. I get nauseous after a few shots so I just stick with a can of something fruity. I’m not one to get blackout drunk, or throw up outside the venue at 1 am.

It’d be atypical if I had a Shibuya meltdown. It’s a name for when you pass out on the streets of Shibuya after drinking too much in your work clothes and lay there until you wake up.

But I might fall apart tonight. My bones feel old and my jaw is sore and I’m dehydrated.

Shibuya meltdown. You seem so inviting. Not in the way of getting motherfucking shwasted but I wanna be set free. Break down for a bit so I can rebuild myself.

Shibuya meltdown. Start crying in front of the cool influencers and ask papa to come pick me up.

Shibuya meltdown. Eyes puffy and my boyfriend doesn’t know what to do and curling up in a ball on the cold concrete of Dogenzaka.

Shibuya meltdown. Sobbing in the VIP lounge like someone just died and contemplating giving up.

But I’ll be better after that. I always end up feeling better in the morning. You know, I think it takes guts to do what I do. And I believe in the person I want to become. And so do my friends.

I’m sorry for breaking down on the phone last night. It made me laugh when you started crying too because you’re such a Cancer Moon. You slept like a baby after that. I love you to pieces.

Shibuya meltdown. My friends take pictures of businessmen sleeping on the sidewalk and the girls share chicken nuggets while we wait for the 6 am train.

Shibuya meltdown. I’m resistant to the cold and I’m hopeful that one day, Exit Number Five will be on the billboards of Shibuya Scramble.

Shibuya meltdown. You think I’m pretty even when my mascara is runny and I think you’re pretty too.

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I don’t think it needs an introduction anymore. I walk past the security guards to get into the VIP area backstage. I can recognize a few faces and I have people I can call friends here but I’m a stra