Notes from a room the algorithm no longer visits. For writers who write outside the algorithm.
I am a Japanese writer with a catalog of over 300 short stories on note, and more than 100 pieces published across major Medium publications.
My work is best known among my Japanese readers for its unique blend of surrealism, dry humor, and the quiet absurdities of everyday life. I specialize in taking mundane situations—like coming home from school—and twisting them into something unrecognizable and comedic.
Now, I am focusing on adapting my extensive catalog of work for the English-speaking audience. I believe that laughter (and the feeling of "What on earth did I just read?") is a universal language.
Thank you for stepping into my world. Let’s keep a comfortable distance, but feel free to enjoy the view.
Why I Write to Keep the System from Crashing
I am not well. Or rather, my mind does not idle the way a mind is supposed to. Writing is not a hobby for me—it’s a containment protocol.
As long as I can remember, my mind has generated delusions the way servers generate logs. A single word, a half-formed question, a stray anecdote—any one of them can trigger an uncontrolled fork, spawning entire alternate realities in my head.
Lately, the process has become unstable.
The narratives no longer pause. They boot before I’m fully awake. While I brush my teeth, three incompatible worlds compile at once. When I lie down to sleep, the engine redlines. I’ve lost the location of the off switch.
Inside my skull, something keeps replicating. It sounds dry and structural—like bone under stress. I’m afraid that if I don’t externalize the overflow, the system will breach its casing.
So I write.
I translate noise into sentences. I publish fragments that may be useless to everyone except me. I don’t expect to be understood, or even read. But I know this much: without output, I will fail catastrophically.
I recently recognized this condition in others. Hans Christian Andersen lived in near-constant anxiety, surviving by exporting his inner chaos into fairy tales. His work, to me, isn’t children’s literature—it’s documentation from the edge of psychological overload.
The Little Mermaid is not a romance. It’s a system failure. Losing her voice is the destruction of an interface. Turning into sea foam is not death, but instance termination: a process erased without judgment, without rollback, because the environment found no further use for its data.
This pathology is not uniquely Western.
In 14th-century Japan, the monk Yoshida Kenkō described sitting for hours before an inkstone, letting “useless thoughts” drift through his mind and writing them down in fragments. He called this state monogurui—a sacred distraction, a divine instability.
Kenkō used aphorisms. Andersen used fairy tales. Different formats, same function: writing as a regulator for a mind that refuses to idle.
I write in their shadow.
Whether this is illness, creativity, or a glitch in my brain’s operating system remains unresolved. Until it resolves itself—until the stories stop compiling—I will continue scattering unfinished thoughts, joke-less narratives, and speculative nonsense across the internet.
This is escapism. It is also survival.
I live in a voluntary withdrawal, watching the world at a distance while my mind runs at double capacity. I suspect that one day this will end—not with an explosion, but with a terrifying silence.
Until then, I keep tapping the inkstone.
I write because I am monogurui. And I suspect some of you are, too.
The stories you read here are not simple translations.
Each piece begins in Japanese, in a language tuned to silence, implication, and cultural shortcuts. When I adapt them into English, the text has to survive a controlled failure: jokes break, metaphors collapse, and sometimes an entirely different organism crawls out.
On Substack, I document this process work by work. I publish the original Japanese passages, the English versions, and notes on what changed—what I rewrote, what I abandoned, and what could not be carried across languages.
Think of this space as a digital Jack-in-the-box: you never know if you'll find a sharp corporate critique or a surrealist fever dream about spice curry. I write to disrupt the silence.
If you wish to continue wandering through these logs, you are welcome to join.
My work appears across a wide range of publications— from the philosophical and contemplative (The Haven, Contemplate), to the surreal and comedic (MuddyUm, Doctor Funny), to the literary and atmospheric (Fiction Shorts, Dark Lore Digest).
Each piece is a fragment of a system trying not to crash.
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A Note on Our Connection
"Your time is too precious for empty gestures."
This space is a sanctuary for genuine resonance, not for the noise of "claps-for-claps." I value your attention as a limited, sacred resource. Therefore:
No Reciprocal Clapping: I do not participate in the culture of mutual obligation. If you clap, let it be because something within these logs echoed in your own mind.
No AI Engagement: I use AI as a tool for translation and structural refinement, but the human connection remains. Automated "engagement" is a glitch I choose to avoid.
One genuine clap is enough. If a story doesn't resonate, I ask for nothing more than your silent departure. In this world of noise, silence is often the most profound form of respect.
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Note on Creative Process: I work with AI tools as one might work with a second pair of hands— not to generate ideas, but to translate the ones that refuse to stay still. The foundational philosophical inquiries and narrative concepts originate with me, while AI assists in structural translation, refinement, and conceptual visualization (including featured images), helping bridge linguistic and cultural nuances between Japanese and English.
Business Inquiries: If you wish to discuss collaborations, licensing, or spice curry, please reach out at: majibai_writer@outlook.jp
