The Kingdom of Endless Summer

Have you ever wondered what it’s like to live in a world where the sun never takes a break? It is so devoted to its job. It’s a place where the air is warm and gentle. The rhythm of bees creates a soft hum in the air. The ground beneath your feet whispers ancient secrets if you’re patient enough to listen.

In this sun-drenched world, the dirt paths weren’t just roads. They were storytellers. They curled through fields like lazy cats stretching in the afternoon glow. Grasshoppers ruled these lands with playful defiance. Their jumps challenged any child with quick reflexes. A child’s imagination needed to be even quicker.

And I? I was a warrior, a legend among the under-tens, known for my daring grasshopper-chasing quests. Catch two, and you were respectable. Catch three, and you were a myth whispered about in hushed tones. Catch four? Impossible—those were the gods of grasshoppers.

The Village That Cradled Us

I grew up in a village so embraced by nature. It felt like the earth itself was keeping us safe. It whispered lullabies of rustling leaves and singing cicadas. Every sunset, the sky melted into a burning orange. Dirt roads stretched out like old promises. They were waiting to be fulfilled.

My grandmother’s house stood at the heart of it all. The wise old longan tree shaded it. This tree was so ancient that it probably had opinions on politics. Its branches were heavy with sweet, honeyed fruit, luring both children and sneaky birds into its embrace.

My grandmother’s voice floated from the kitchen. It carried the scent of home-cooked meals. These meals were so rich with spices and stories. You could taste the history in every bite. She always had an uncanny ability to summon us for dinner. It was always the exact moment we had just won an important race against the neighbor’s delinquent chickens.

Those chickens were no joke. They were escape artists, sprinters, and, at times, philosophers who stared at you as if questioning your entire existence. But life was simple then. No smartphones, no notifications—just the thrill of a victorious grasshopper catch and the glory of outpacing a chicken.

The City That Never Paused

Then, like a plot twist I didn’t sign up for, I was plucked from my village. Suddenly, I was dropped into the electric heartbeat of Tokyo. One moment, I was feeling the warm earth between my toes. The next, I was wedged between two businessmen on a subway. I was surrounded by the scent of matcha lattes and existential dread.

Tokyo was a different universe. It didn’t hum; it roared. The pavement buzzed with the footsteps of millions. Glass towers stretched towards the heavens like they were competing with each other. The neon signs never blinked. They had stamina I could only dream of.

Instead of racing chickens, I now raced against closing subway doors. Instead of dirt roads, I navigated concrete labyrinths. Every turn brought a new flood of people. They all seemed to know exactly where they were going.

Amid the city’s relentless energy, something started gnawing at me. I longed for the village and the sun-warmed dirt. I missed the longan tree and the childhood adventures it sheltered. Nostalgia hit me like a rogue subway pole when the train braked too hard.

Pixels, Memories, and a Time Machine

One evening, I was crammed in a subway car. I stood between a guy in a suit who smelled like ambition. Another person was there whose backpack had apparently never heard of personal space. It hit me.

Back home, happiness was simple: chasing grasshoppers, outrunning mischievous chickens, and feeling the sun bake the earth beneath my feet. In Tokyo, happiness was… more complicated. So, I found a way to reclaim that carefree joy—through art.

I recreated the golden glow of the fields. The dirt paths curled like secrets. The longan tree spilled dappled light like a generous storyteller. My canvas became my playground, my escape hatch from the grown-up world of deadlines and crowded trains. Every piece felt like slipping through a hidden door back into my childhood. It took me back to days when time was measured in grasshopper chases. I also recalled the number of fruit I could sneak before Grandma caught me.

And people noticed. Some stopped. Their eyes were distant. It was as if my work had reached into the attic of their memories. It dusted off an old, forgotten joy.

One woman, blinking fast like she wasn’t about to cry, whispered, “This reminds me of my grandparents’ farm. I didn’t realize how much I missed it.”

A businessman, suit perfect but soul obviously overworked, lingered longer than corporate life usually allowed. “I used to play in my backyard as a kid,” he murmured. “Haven’t thought about that in years. Thank you.”

For a fleeting moment, the city slowed. Maybe, just maybe, I had found a way to bring back the happiness I once had. It was the kind that didn’t need notifications, deadlines, or permission. Just a bit of creativity and the willingness to play.

The Magic in the Ordinary

Art is its own kind of magic. It is not the flashy kind with capes and wands. It is the quiet kind that tugs at the heart. This magic reminds us of things we didn’t even know we had forgotten.

In a city of steel and neon, a single painting of a sunlit field could press pause on the world. It reminded people—and me—that life wasn’t just skyscrapers and subway doors that close too fast. It was dusty roads, mischievous grasshoppers, and the laughter of a child outsmarting a chicken.

And so, my art became a bridge, a gift to others and a promise to myself. Regardless of how far we go or how many skyscrapers rise, inside each of us is a sunlit world waiting. Once upon a time, we were all grasshopper-catching heroes in that world.