ゆめのなか
ひとはもどる
たいせつなものへ
yume no naka / hito wa modoru / taisetsu na mono e
in a dream / we return / to what truly matters
If I had three magic wishes, I already know what they would be.
And maybe that’s the quiet tragedy of it—how simple they are,
and how often I forget them.
The first would be to spend more time with the people I love.
I already try to, but life—life is greedy. It takes its share.
It drains you, makes you tired, makes you choose efficiency over presence.
And each time that happens, each time I choose the noise over the faces that calm me,
I regret it.
There’s no better investment than time given to your tribe.
Family, friends, those rare souls who make you feel like you can breathe deeper around them.
Everything I’ve learned that mattered came from others—
from watching, listening, sitting beside them long enough to catch the rhythm of their hearts.
The world teaches us to chase independence,
but happiness, I think, is a shared construction.
It’s built, not achieved.
The older I get, the more I understand that “love” isn’t a single emotion.
It’s attention, presence, small rituals repeated over time.
Cooking together. Long walks without purpose.
Saying “I’m here” without needing to explain why.
If I had one wish, it would be to always remember this,
especially on the days when the world makes me forget.
My second wish would be to have followed my passions earlier.
Not recklessly, not in some dramatic, cinematic way—
just earlier.
To have trusted that the things that pull at your curiosity
are not distractions but directions.
In my twenties, I played it safe.
I followed what seemed stable, predictable, respected.
And yet, the people who inspire me most never played it safe.
They wandered. They combined things that didn’t seem to fit—
craft and science, art and structure, risk and patience.
They built what some call a “talent stack,”
but really it’s just a long story of saying yes to what feels alive.
Looking back, I wish I had diversified sooner—
not just my career, but my self.
Taken more small bets. Failed more interestingly.
I know now that playing it safe slowly costs more than taking risks ever could.
Safety, when stretched too long, becomes its own kind of danger.
Still, the wish isn’t bitter.
Because it’s not too late.
The lesson came, even if it arrived on tired legs.
And maybe part of maturity is realizing that passion doesn’t expire—
it just waits for you to remember it.
The third wish is harder.
To have taken better care of my health.
This one feels almost universal.
No matter how disciplined you are,
life finds a way to wear you down.
And health isn’t something you ever finish taking care of—
it’s maintenance, not mastery.
There are the obvious things—
less alcohol, more sleep, a balanced body that doesn’t burn its candle for comfort.
And then there are the quieter ones—
protecting your energy, staying close to people who make you laugh,
not letting bitterness calcify inside you.
I’ve realized health is less about perfection
and more about not giving the wrong things too much of you.
There’s a checklist—avoid the obvious poisons, physical or otherwise.
But beyond that, it’s about small daily negotiations with your future self.
Eating well. Moving often. Feeling alive enough to keep showing up.
Each of these wishes could be written on a napkin.
They’re that simple.
Spend more time with people who matter.
Follow what makes you come alive.
Take care of the machine that carries you through it all.
No wealth, no wisdom, no accomplishment can replace these three.
They are the foundation beneath everything else.
And yet, somehow, they’re the first things I forget when life gets busy.
Maybe the real wish is not to get them—
but to remember them.
Every day.
Especially when the world tries to convince me that something else matters more.
Because it never does.
If I had three wishes,
I’d spend them reminding myself of what I already know—
that love, curiosity, and health
are the real currency of a good life.
Everything else is just the noise between breaths.
life 
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