At Twenty-Five, I Set My Heart on Kyō

I turned twenty-six in June.

Twenty-five was a major turning point for me, but with time I've come to feel it was, after all, just another milestone along the way. Perhaps that is the result of spending each day wrestling with myself and, at times, suffering. Lately I feel I've often been present at moments when my everyday thoughts turn into convictions.

Before I knew it, I had become able to express my own philosophy and ideas in words, and their outlines have grown sharper. The most representative of them is my aspiration (kokorozashi)—a strong will I have set my heart on.

What I set my heart on at twenty-five was kyō (興). That is: to keep starting things myself by doing what I genuinely find enjoyable.

The character 興 is, quite literally, interesting. It carries the sense of okosu—to start something new, to make something flourish—and also the sense of fun and enjoyment, as in kyōmi (興味, interest). It is a character that is as fierce and passionate as a flame, yet has the unhurried grace and dignity of a river.

I didn't record how I came across it, but I think I probably looked it up starting from the characters kōsan (興産, "promoting industry") in the name of the Japanese oil company Idemitsu Kosan. When I found that my thinking could be expressed in a single character, it felt like something had clicked perfectly into place.

To fulfill a mission of advancing civilization and culture through the things I start in this way—I thought that would be truly delightful.

It was only at this age that I finally realized I could accomplish nothing alone. I also realized that nurturing, passing things on, and leaving things behind—which at first glance look like work for one's later years—actually contain extremely important elements from the very beginning.

Precisely because these require many years, I thought I should practice them fully starting now. If I wait until I've achieved something I'm satisfied with, it will be too late. That way of thinking probably comes from the misconception that I am the protagonist of life, and that a generational handover will one day happen naturally.

The inconspicuous parts rarely get attention. Yet the infrastructure essential to daily life supports us from places we cannot see. In that sense, the idea that everyone must be a protagonist is, in a way, misleading.

There's no doubt that each of us is the protagonist of our own life. Proclaiming that loudly is a wonderful thing, but the notion that only protagonists have value and everyone else is lesser strikes me as something of a waste. Being a supporting player—a supporter, a helper—holds an important role in the world and for one another.

Picture a stage and you'll see. The supporting cast who back the lead, the lighting, sound, costumes, sets, props, and the stage manager—each has an important role that cannot be missing. Society is the same: each of us has our own role, and together they make it whole.

Even in business, the protagonists are not us but the people who enjoy the value we provide.

It goes without saying, but to realize this, we have to respect one another from the heart.

I have never wished to become a symbol of hope myself. Instead, I placed at the center the idea of passing hope along, one person to the next—what I call "hope propagation" (kibō denpa). This, too, was a way of thinking I finally grasped at twenty-five.

It means that people who see and hear the hopes of those around them—dreams, visions—are inspired and come to hold hopes of their own. Creating that chain reaction of hope across all times and places is truly great work. I am convinced that as the chain of hope spreads, society as a whole will move forward in a better direction. And of course, that too is a kind of kyō.

Together, we can build a better future. In that process, whether one is the lead or a supporting player doesn't matter much. What matters, I believe, is to convey hope to those around us and pass it on to the next generation.

It's not that I'm pursuing some lofty purpose; isn't it simply more fun that way?

What can I do toward that end? I always arrive at the same conclusion: the only way is forward, and in the end, all I can do is keep going.

Unless it's something I genuinely find enjoyable, I can't keep it going. No kyō, no continuing. With that in mind, I set my heart on kyō.