"Once Upon a Time in My Life" was written as an extension of the book "Rita's Garden."
In previous works, the author recorded his fragmentary thoughts, thoughts, and philosophy.
And if 『Sentences That Cannot Be Written』 contained the mindset and attitude with which I wrote, the patience and worries I had before writing a single line, and what I was writing and what I was trying to write, then this tenth book, 『What Was Once My Life』, contains the life I lived to write such a piece, a deeper and more intimate personal life story that could not be answered in my previous work, and several anecdotes written like a coming-of-age story.

The flowers fall.
The scent rises along the footprints of the petals.
I remember a time when I was completely blossoming.
I remind myself that the things that were my life have not completely withered away.

Even under the spring sun, among the falling flowers, there is a time that has just crossed the threshold, a memory that must be entered alone, a past that no one can go with.

In the spring when flowers bloom, I often get caught up in the scent of flowers, get lost in memories, and stop and look back.
You must turn back before the flowers bloom.
In the season when flowers are scattered here and there...
I stand here, clinging to this tenacious life, wondering where to go.
Where should it flow?
The warm sun sparkled on the river.
It was a very spring day that left one person alone again.
--- From "What Was Once My Life"

Suddenly, as I walk down the street, the wind blows and the scent of flowers tickles my nose. A memory from a page comes to mind and I stop and read for a long time.

In the old scenes, there live seasons that cannot be passed over, and a woman who never ages.
Still
Live by cultivating a heart that blooms and sprouts.
I have to talk about that day.
The days that were once my life,
The day I pulled out the tall, tough weeds in the yard, the day I looked up at the sky with the breeze blowing through my hair, the day I sat on a chair and felt the warmth of spring, the day when the birds that arrived with the wind chimed, and when I slowly opened my eyes, the sunlight shining on the branches of the plum tree, the ripe afternoon sunset sparkling and coloring my eyes.

Still, when I close my eyes, I am there, sweating, crying, savoring the gentle breeze, intoxicated by the scent of flowers, whistling, listening to the sound of rain.
--- From "What Was Once My Life"

I recall that day when life blossomed once in perfect time, in perfect pain and poverty, in even more perfect solitude and loneliness, in a desperate and earnest, yet so perfect beauty.
It was the journey that started me on my way to becoming who I am today.

--- From "What Was Once My Life"

As I write, there is a place that I arrive at before I do.
As I walk through the unknown maze of time and space that is completely different from what I originally intended to write, and painstakingly pick up the broken and scattered words one by one and connect them sentence by sentence, a past that I had never imagined comes to fruition.
That's how the book was written.

An article that had no theme or plan to begin with.
When I write, I tend not to be confined by format.
All stories are not written, they occur spontaneously.
As I follow along to see which voice finds me first, the order of my memories is sometimes reversed and rearranged.
If you follow what your heart seeks rather than your head, the sentence will reach somewhere before you.
Sometimes I feel so embarrassed that I often sigh in front of the scene that brought me here.
That's how this book came.

Actually, I was more worried about whether I should publish this article than about the day I wrote it.
Can this, which is so random, be called writing?
I don't know.
Just writing it down.
I see.
That's what it was.
And I swept my mind several times.
A piece of writing that I had never anticipated or predicted.
The original idea I had for writing was actually about the sea, but this writing once again expanded its territory into the white space, erasing the sea, and then just sat me down in a small garden.
Somehow, I even went back to my childhood days.
To unravel a story, a child who had no choice but to confess, no longer cries, but doesn't everyone have several secrets they don't want to tell?
I'm still afraid to reveal something like that.
But the writing has already come, and it has already been written.
It feels like I've gone on a long journey to find lost time, wandering and hesitating, only to find myself taking a shortcut again.
If anyone comes across this sentence, I hope they will embrace it warmly, even its shortcomings.
--- From "What Was Once My Life"

There are so many things I want to say, but I guess I'll just have to wait until something comes pouring down again.
And for the time being, I plan to fully embody the new life I will experience in the future.

We will each live a life with our own fairy tale.
How far can one live with one body?
I wonder about that.
Because I still have a lot of stories left to write and for the stories that will be written in the future, I still try to believe in life more than in writing.
Lastly, I want to say this.

The answer to the question of what to write is always one.
Being alive.
I have lived and will live.
I believe that only it will survive.
I am.
My writing has not yet begun, for I have only completed half of it.
I think I should write it someday.
One day, far in the future, I will hear a clear echo from within.
to.

I recall that day when life blossomed once in perfect time, in perfect pain and poverty, in even more perfect solitude and loneliness, in a desperate and earnest way, in a beauty so perfect that it was almost too perfect.
It was the journey that started me on my way to becoming who I am today.

--- From "What Was Once My Life"