I saw him out of the corner of my eye. A middle aged man, wearing the ubiquitous white paper mask, backpack slung over a black pea coat. A perfectly normal-looking Japanese man, except that his eyes were closed and his hands outstretched, swaying in time with this live Gospel choir performance in the middle of Sendai station.
Passersby stared at him, bemused expressions on their faces. The performers were too busy to notice; the small audience ignored him, or pretended to ignore him, hands folded, smiling placidly, tapping their feet almost imperceptibly.
Standing quietly in a row with the other audience members, I glanced over at him. I wondered who he was, how he of all people had been able to defy the unspoken rule that strong emotions be tucked safely away and brought out at only a few socially approved outlets, like at sports events or in a karaoke box. I felt embarrassed for him, and yet somehow awed. How was it that he paid no mind to the stares and sneers of those around him? Was he drunk? Was he lost in the music? Did he have a mental illness that lowered his inhibitions? Or was he having some sort of transcendent worship experience, all by himself, right in the middle of Sendai station?
Jealous tears welled up in my eyes as I realized that in this crowd of stoics, he was the most human of us all.
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