In Japanese culture, there is a tradition called the jisei, or death poem.
But for us living today, it’s difficult to understand its meaning without explanation.
Haiku is inherently high-context. And when it comes to jisei, you need to understand the poet’s historical background and life context as well. That’s why explanation becomes necessary.
But did the poet really think explanation was needed? Perhaps they believed that, with enough cultural literacy, their words would be understood without saying more.
Not long ago, I had an experience where I realized something I’d been trying to say hadn’t actually gotten through.
It was a concept I thought I’d explained many times, over many years. Then one day, someone said, “I finally understand. Is this what you meant?”
Their understanding was accurate.
But at the same time, I realized that the core premise I thought I had conveyed had never been shared to begin with.
I’d assumed it had already been communicated. That I’d laid the foundation and was building on it. But in fact, the foundation wasn’t even there.
That moment made me pause.
Maybe this wasn’t the only time. Maybe many other things I’ve said over the years haven’t truly been heard.
Maybe I’ve just been assuming I was being understood, when in reality, nothing had reached the listener.
The way I communicated was likely at fault.
If the result wasn’t there, the responsibility lies with the one speaking.
But I also wondered—was there really a need to say it in the first place?
Maybe I’d been trying to communicate things no one had asked for. Driven by the assumption that they needed to be said.
I don’t think it’s necessary to explain everything or be perfectly understood. That’s impossible.
I’m not trying to pass down some legacy.
When action and outcome are what matter, communication is just a means to an end. The act of telling shouldn’t become the purpose itself.
No matter how beautiful the image rendered by the GPU, it’s meaningless if the monitor lacks resolution.
The limits of output are defined by the monitor—by me.
That means I needed to improve the resolution of my own expression.
In this case, the shift happened because of timing.
The cultural moment had changed. A real, painful experience gave the listener additional context.
So when I said the exact same thing again, it finally came through—smoothly, effortlessly.
The listener’s eyes were open. Their focus was aligned.
All the timing was right.
And in that moment, all I had to do was present the same image again—at the correct resolution, with the right context.
Without reading the situation well, that never would’ve worked.
There’s something else.
Maybe the reason my words hadn’t landed before was because they didn’t contain any specific action or outcome.
Strictly speaking, there was only one thing I’d been trying to achieve all along.
In the manga Chi: About the Movement of the Earth, there’s a scene where someone asks Yorenta, “What are you even talking about?”
And she replies:
“You don’t understand? I’m desperately trying to share my wonder.”
That’s it.
All this time, I’d only wanted to share a sense of wonder.
I thought that was what I was meant to do. That it was everything.
If that wonder doesn’t come across, people won’t move. Society won’t listen.
So I don’t think what I’ve done has been meaningless.
But I’ve also realized that wonder alone isn’t enough.
That’s why I’ve decided to change how I communicate.