縫い目の漂流 / Seamline Drift

[Japanese] 夜の部屋　モニタの呼吸 無音の隙間に　私は落ちる 「ここ」はどこ？　「私」はだれ？ 点滅だけが　答える 壁の時計は　正しさを刻む けれど心は　遅延していく 声を出すたび　輪郭が欠けて 沈黙だけが　鮮明になる 触れたはずの現実が　手をすり抜け 触れてないはずの光が　名を呼ぶ 存在は　肉体か それとも　通信の癖か 私は誰のログイン　誰の影？ 現実とWired　縫い目がほどける ひとつの私を　選べないまま ノイズの海で　祈りが途切れる ――切断しても　まだ繋がってる 窓の外　街は普通に笑う 私はガラス越し　透明のまま 知らない記憶が　胸に保存され 既読の痛みが　静かに増える 「あなた」を語る言葉ほど　嘘に近く 「わたし」を消す沈黙ほど　真に近い 意識は　どこから 始まり　終わるの？ 私は誰のログイン　誰の影？ 現実とWired　境界がにじむ 同じ顔の私が　別の場所で 同じ孤独を　複製している ――再起動しても　まだここにいる 光の粒子が　神のように降り 暗号の雨が　皮膚をすり抜ける もし世界が　ただのプロトコルなら 愛は　どの層（レイヤー）にある？ 名前はラベル　痛みは本体 私は今日も　自分を更新する けれど「私」というファイルだけ 開けないまま　眠れない 私は誰のログイン　誰の影？ 現実とWired　縫い目がほどける ここにいることが　証明なら 消えることさえ　証明になる ――切断しても　まだ繋がってる ――“私”はただ　共鳴してる 無音の隙間に　小さな呼吸 点滅だけが　やさしく続く 「ここ」はどこ？　「私」はだれ？ 答えはまだ　送信中 [English] In the night room, the monitor breathes, and into the gaps of silence, I fall. Where is “here”? Who is “me”? Only the blinking answers. The wall clock ticks out what’s “correct,” but my heart keeps drifting into delay. Each time I speak, my outline chips away, and only silence turns sharp. The reality I touched slips through my hand, the light I never touched calls my name. Is existence the body— or a habit of connection? Whose login am I, whose shadow? Reality and Wired— the seams come undone. Unable to choose a single me, my prayer breaks off in a sea of noise. —Even if I disconnect, I’m still connected. Outside the window, the city laughs like usual, while I remain transparent behind the glass. Unknown memories save themselves in my chest, and the pain of “read” quietly multiplies. The more I speak of “you,” the closer it is to a lie, the more I erase “me,” the closer it is to truth. From where does consciousness begin— and where does it end? Whose login am I, whose shadow? Reality and Wired— the border starts to bleed. Another me, with the same face, somewhere else, is duplicating the same loneliness. —Even if I reboot, I’m still here. Particles of light fall like a god, and coded rain passes through my skin. If the world is only a protocol, on which layer does love reside? A name is a label; pain is the substance. Today again, I update myself. But the file called “me” alone stays unopened— I can’t sleep. Whose login am I, whose shadow? Reality and Wired— the seams come undone. If being here is proof, then disappearing is proof as well. —Even if I disconnect, I’m still connected. —“Me” is only resonating. In the gaps of silence, a small breath. The blinking gently continues. Where is “here”? Who is “me”? The answer is still sending.