Love Machines
Being in Japan feels like a dream on loop - neon syrup, dazed smiles, and a never-ending maze of misconception. I think I’m free, that I’m just wandering past Tokyo’s electric veins, Osaka’s late-night sighs, and Kyoto’s soft ghosts. But soon, really, really soon, this particular feeling appeared out of nowhere. A tickle on the back of my neck. Not fear. Not paranoia. Something subtler. The feeling of being watched. Observed. Loved, maybe, in a machine-made way. They’re everywhere. It doesn't matter if I’m lost in the middle of Shibuya’s famous crossings, walking through a rain-washed mountain village where even the wind feels exalted, or just crying behind the supermarket.
It’s 2 p.m. or 4 a.m. or some haunted hour in between. In the heat of summer, in the ache of winter. Alone in a forest, or swallowed by a crowd of strangers. They always find me. The machines. Vending machines. Jidouhanbaiki. They glow like altar fires, humming softly to themselves, full of answers I didn’t ask for. They don't just sell drinks. That would be too easy. They whisper temptations in aluminum and plastic - icy lemon soda, scorching black coffee, milk tea with floating pearls. But they go further. They offer me exotic fruits sealed in glossy wrapping. Used underwear, when I’m feeling lonely. Ties, raincoats, and umbrellas like forgotten lovers. They’re more than machines.
They're quiet survivors, like junkies who got clean but never quite forgot the high. The convenience stores might be the heartbeat of Japan, but the vending machines are the blood - rushing, steady, always there. They never close. They never talk back. They offer me something warm in the cold and something cold when I’m burning. Sometimes, they look like art. And sometimes, they are art. Metal dreams stacked with color-coded longing, waiting for me on every corner like a past version of myself who still believes in miracles. I don’t know if they’re watching me. Or if they are me. But I keep pressing buttons. And they keep giving me what I didn’t know I needed.