Plans That Changed
On December 14th in Kuala Lumpur, I had planned to meet a friend. I found a food stall, ordered some warm roti, and sat down to wait. The smell of the bread, light and crisp, kept me company while I looked forward to our meeting.
But then, a photo arrived on my phone. It was from my friend. His car had been rear-ended, and he was at the police station. Thankfully, he was unharmed, but the car was badly damaged. Our plans were canceled. Relief came first, knowing he was safe. Yet suddenly, the day opened wide with no schedule.
Walking Without a Plan
With no destination, I decided to wander into a part of the city I hadn't visited. One thing I find fascinating about Kuala Lumpur is how sharply the landscape shifts. In one direction, tall skyscrapers and modern apartments rise in clusters, symbols of a booming city. But just a short distance away—perhaps like the space between Shinjuku and Shibuya in Tokyo—you find neighborhoods that feel paused in time.
As I walked closer to the towers, the contrast grew stronger. Between the glass buildings and luxury apartments stood small areas that seemed forgotten. Buildings worn with age, streets that felt too quiet, and corners that looked far from the modern city around them.
Standing there, I slowly turned in a full circle, taking in the 360-degree view. It felt like two worlds pressed against each other—one reaching upward with ambition, the other grounded in simplicity and decay.
A City of Contrasts
Tokyo, my home city, is full of tall buildings too. But there, the differences between districts are less striking. In Kuala Lumpur, the contrast between "ultra-modern" and "almost abandoned" is vivid and visible in a way that feels raw. Discovering these places makes wandering endlessly rewarding, each turn offering another perspective of the city.
Returning to the Market
After circling back, I returned to the market I often visit. There, in the middle of the stalls, something startling caught my eye: the head of a cow, placed as if it were an offering for a sacred ritual. Its nose still shone as if it had only just been cut.
I paused. Traveling the world often brings me closer to the realities of life and death. These encounters remind me how fragile and valuable life is.
At that moment, I thought again of gratitude. I often remind myself, "I must be thankful." But one day, I hope gratitude will flow naturally, without reminder, like breathing.
