Eleven years ago today, on September 23, 2015, I completed my bicycle journey around Japan. Life can change so much in a decade.

The other day, KUUHAK-, who also support me as Dai Sorano in Tokyo, held a charity concert for me. To everyone who came: thank you, truly.

I wrote a letter to everyone there—the performers, the staff, and the audience. In the video, octagonia, who plays djembe in KUUHAK-, read it aloud.

To those who came that day, those who reached out because they were worried, and those who supported me on social media: it made me happy all over again to realize how many people are cheering me on.

I felt that a digital message wasn’t the right way to express my gratitude. A letter seemed like the best way to send you a heartfelt “thank you.” I wonder if my feelings reached everyone there that day.

I was sent a private video of the concert and watched it. By the end, I was crying. Tears were coming from both eyes. I was really crying.

When the left side of my body was paralyzed, tears came only from my right eye. No matter what I felt, the left half of me didn’t move at all.

I would stare at my fingertips and tell them, Move! But they wouldn’t budge. It felt as though I were confronting my teenage years all over again. I remembered a manga I read back then.

Maybe an alien life-form had taken over the paralyzed left half of my body—the half that couldn’t even cry. Maybe one day my left hand would start talking on its own, and I’d name it “Hidary.”

That was the sort of ridiculous thing I was thinking in the ambulance on August 1. I was frightened and desperate, but perhaps that was exactly why my mind went somewhere comical.

I spent some time in the hospital and underwent ten kinds of tests. At the previous two hospitals, the results had shown no apparent cause for a stroke in my lifestyle, blood tests, blood pressure, or heart. Everything had looked good.

This time, the university hospital examined me more closely, taking those earlier results into account. At last, they identified the condition:

Right middle cerebral artery dissection.

In Japanese, it’s pronounced uchū dainō dōmyaku kairi. Since it starts with uchū—which sounds like the Japanese word for “outer space”—I joked to my family, “See? I really was taken over by an alien!”

I’m still such a kid.

Apparently, the dissection is small. For some reason, a narrow blood vessel branching off from the affected area was causing strokes. We still don’t know exactly what that reason is, but I’m relieved that, with the doctors’ help, we’ve identified the underlying condition.

In all, I’ve had three strokes and one transient ischemic attack: four episodes altogether.

And yet, through all of this, I’ve been lucky. Despite the repeated strokes, I have almost no serious lasting effects. I picked up my guitar again recently and discovered that my left pinky is going through a slight rebellious phase. Apart from that, I’m doing remarkably well. I really am lucky.

I’m grateful to my family and friends, my ancestors, the gods and Buddhas, and every cat, dog, and insect out there. (Watch out for narrow-minded spiritual gurus.)

We still don’t know what triggers an episode. For now, rest is essential. I’m avoiding seeing people so I can steer clear of emotional or physical stress and anything that might raise my blood pressure. I spend much less time on social media, too.

People have kindly sent me all sorts of suggestions, perhaps out of concern and support. But if something requires me to take action myself, I’ve had to decline. Just knowing you care means more than enough to me right now. I hope you understand.

Of course, I’m not drinking. I am going for walks. And I’m holding my guitar again, partly to tame that rebellious pinky. Little by little, I’m finding more things I can do.

I’ve felt good these past few days. I have plenty of energy, but I can’t let my guard down. I’m careful with everything I do.

On my bedroom wall is a roadmap to my return.

It really has been a life of mountains and valleys.

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Accept where you are now.
Discover the joys that only this moment can hold.
The will to keep going nurtures days you’ll come to love
and weaves the future together.

On the days when life feels unbearable,
it is far too soon to decide,
“This is my fate.”

If you need to, blame someone else with all your might.
If you need to, run from reality with all your might.

To someone climbing,
another person may look as though they’re desperately descending.
To someone descending,
that same person may look as though they’re desperately climbing.

Forward or backward,
we are all headed to the same place.

To the young:
you don’t have to try so hard.

The idea that having dreams and hopes
is the only thing worthy of praise
is something adults who chose their own dreams
have imposed on you.

Know who you are now.
Accept who you are now.
Find joy in this moment.
Grieve in this moment.
Live this moment with everything you have.
And someday, when your time comes,
die having lived with everything you had.

When the present has become the past,
when you find yourself unable to move forward,
your experiences will give you a push.

They will become part of what makes you you.
They will become your flowers.

So you’ll be okay.
Who you are now is fleeting, fragile, and wonderfully human.

​

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That’s all. This is my last update on my illness.

A 41-year-old guy from the countryside is going to start chasing his dreams again today.

With love to you for reading this long letter.

September 23, 2026
Dai Sorano