The Tragedy of Izanami and the Fury of Izanagi in the Land of Decay – In Japanese Creation Myths, Death Always Wins
The Japanese Creation Myth: A Tale of Loss and Irrevocable Passing
The story of Izanagi and Izanami speaks not only of the mythical origins of Japan but of something far greater—love and creation, fury and loss, a journey into darkness from which there is no return. It is the tale of deeply human gods who shaped the world, yet whose fates were forever separated by the shadow of Yomi—the realm of the dead, where death is neither a reward nor a punishment, but eternal decomposition. This myth has shaped Japanese imagination since the Kojiki and possibly earlier, its echoes resonating to this day—in literature, Nō theater, the aesthetic of mono no aware, and even in Shintō purification rituals such as harai. But are we really so different from Izanagi? Anyone who has ever experienced loss knows this yearning—the desperate desire to tear a loved one from the clutches of oblivion, to reach for the impossible, to refuse to let go. Grief makes us reject reality, and in our rage, we may long to grasp death by the throat itself.
Today, we will recount the love of Izanami and Izanagi—from the creation of the Japanese islands, through the tragedy of separation, to the desperate journey into the depths of Yomi and the sealing of its gates, which, once shut, never opened again. Each act of this story will be accompanied by commentary that seeks to unravel the deeper meaning behind these events. For this is not merely a myth about gods—it is a tale of how the Japanese sought to reconcile themselves with the death of their loved ones, how the longing to hold on to what must depart turns into a nightmare, and why, in the Japanese worldview, there is no escape from impermanence. Here, even the gods are powerless against death—and crossing its boundary is always a one-way journey, for both mortals and kami alike.
For Yomi is not just a myth. It is the fear of impermanence that still lingers in the air of Japan. It is the shrines and incense for the dead, the empty chair at the table during Obon, the silent procession of lanterns drifting down the river at night. Izanagi believed he could snatch someone from the grip of death—but in the end, it was death that tore a piece of him away. Perhaps that is why, for centuries, so many Japanese artists, philosophers, and poets have written not about what can be held onto, but about what must be let go.
(The following story is known from many sources in Japanese culture, but its primary and oldest version is found in the Kojiki, compiled in 712 by Ō-no Yasumaro at the order of Empress Gemmei.)
Act I – Beginnings
Act I - Story
Kotoamatsukami – The Primordial Gods
In the very beginning, there was nothing—no land, no sky, no light. Only an endless abyss of chaos, where unseen forces trembled like unspoken words. Heaven and earth had yet to take shape, and air and water interwove into a formless, undifferentiated mass. For eons, time remained stagnant—until, from this primordial void, the first divine beings emerged: the Kotoamatsukami (別天津神), the gods of the heavens, entities so fundamental to the very fabric of existence that their presence was almost imperceptible. They were like the wind—present, yet intangible, drifting above the world in a state of pure harmony.
The world slowly began to take form. The heavens, known as Takamagahara (高天原), rose high above all, a realm destined for divine beings. The earth, still unstable, floated in the void like a slick of oil upon water, an unshaped land called Ashihara-no-Nakatsukuni (葦原中国), "The Central Land of Reed Plains," still wild and undefined.
The gods observed this undeveloped world and decided to bring order to its chaos. To accomplish this, they brought forth **two divine beings—**Izanagi and Izanami, the first celestial pair, whose destiny was to complete the act of creation.
Izanagi and Izanami – The Divine Creators
Izanagi (伊邪那岐), whose name means "He Who Invites," was a mighty deity, his face radiant with divine light, his gaze sharp as a blade. His hands could shape reality itself, and his voice echoed like thunder rolling across the heavens. Izanami (伊邪那美), "She Who Invites," was both his sister and wife—a goddess of beauty and fertility, with a serene yet unfathomable gaze. Standing together upon the Floating Bridge of Heaven (Ame-no-Ukihashi, 天の浮橋), they felt the weight of their divine purpose.
— Let the land take shape beneath our will, Izanagi declared, gazing down at the swirling chaos below.
The gods gifted them the Ame-no-Nuboko (天沼矛), a sacred spear with a blade gleaming with the radiance of the heavens, so they could sculpt the world. Izanagi lifted the spear and dipped its tip into the turbulent ocean of chaos. As he withdrew it, **drops of water fell from the blade, thickening and swirling, solidifying into the first land—**the island of Onogoro (淤能碁呂島), "The Self-Forming Island."
Onogoro – The First Land and the Sacred Pillar
Awestruck by their creation, Izanagi and Izanami descended onto Onogoro, stepping upon the newborn earth for the first time. To make it their home, they erected a sacred pillar—Ame-no-Mihashira (天の御柱), "The Heavenly Pillar"—around which they would perform the sacred wedding ritual to unite their divine essences.
The Ceremony
Their hearts beat strongly, for they were not only to complete the act of creation, but also to join their souls and bodies in divine harmony. They decided to perform the sacred wedding rite by circling the pillar in opposite directions—Izanami walked one way, and Izanagi the other. When they met on the other side, Izanami spoke first:
— How beautiful and noble you are, my husband!
But at that very moment, the divine winds held their breath, and the gods of the heavens furrowed their brows. Something had gone wrong.
According to the celestial order, it was the man who was supposed to speak first—such was the eternal law of the heavens. Unaware of their mistake, Izanagi and Izanami completed the ceremony and proceeded with the act of creation. Soon, their union bore its first child.
But when they gazed upon it, they were struck with dread. The child was deformed, unnatural—neither god nor human. They named it Hiruko (蛭子), "The Leech Child," and with heavy hearts, set it adrift upon the waves, letting the ocean carry it away into the unknown.
Shaken and sorrowful, Izanagi and Izanami prayed to the elder gods, seeking answers. The divine voices echoed from the heavens:
— You have performed the sacred ritual incorrectly. The man must speak first. Repeat the ceremony properly, and your children will be powerful and divine.
Humbled by the divine decree, Izanagi and Izanami began the ritual anew. This time, Izanagi spoke first:
— How beautiful and noble you are, my wife!
And Izanami replied with a gentle smile:
— How handsome and strong you are, my husband!
This time, their souls united in accordance with the celestial law, and from their union, mighty deities were born—gods of the seas, rivers, winds, mountains, and forests. Their children were also the islands—one by one, like jewels scattered across the ocean, Awaji, Shikoku, Oki, Kyūshū, and Honshū emerged, forming the land that would later be called Nihon (日本)—"The Land of the Rising Sun."
Yet, as Izanagi and Izanami gazed upon their creation, filled with joy unlike any they had ever known, they remained unaware of the tragedy that awaited them—one that would forever change the fate of the world.
Act I – Commentary
The first part of the myth of Izanagi and Izanami is not merely a story about the birth of Japan—it is also a profound reflection on the order of the world, the role of rituals, and the perpetual process of refining reality. This myth reveals that the world does not emerge as a complete and perfect structure but is instead shaped gradually, through attempts, mistakes, and corrections. The divine couple must repeat their marriage ritual because their first act of creation was flawed—this reflects the fundamental Shintō concept of musubi (結び), the harmonization of forces and processes, which are never given once and for all but require constant adjustment and attunement. Even gods are not perfect and are subject to the laws of the cosmos, distinguishing Japanese mythology from many other traditions where deities possess unlimited power and omniscience from the very beginning. Here, divinity is not about absolute perfection but about the ability to create, adapt, and continually shape the world.
Another essential aspect of this myth is the importance of ritual and its correct execution. Since ancient times, rituals in Japanese culture have not been mere symbolic gestures—their effectiveness depended on precise adherence to rules and the maintenance of spiritual harmony. If a ritual is performed incorrectly, it does not yield the desired results. This is why Izanami and Izanagi must repeat the ceremony—it is not enough to have intent; alignment with the cosmic order is required. This mindset persists in Japan to this day, from Shintō purification rites to everyday practices where form, precision, and spiritual engagement are crucial. This can be seen in martial arts (budō), the tea ceremony (sadō), and ikebana, where technique and spiritual harmony are inseparable.
It is also impossible to overlook the social implications embedded in this myth. The fact that Izanami spoke first and that this was considered a mistake reveals the gender hierarchy in ancient Japan. Although Izanami is a goddess of immense power, her initiative in the sacred ritual is deemed a disruption of cosmic order. This does not mean, however, that women in Japanese mythology were passive—quite the opposite. Izanami ultimately becomes a powerful goddess of death, and their daughter, Amaterasu, ascends as the supreme deity of the heavens. This myth not only reflects the patriarchal structure of early Japanese society but also illustrates a more nuanced philosophy of balance between masculine and feminine forces—neither can act in isolation, and harmony emerges only when each element finds its rightful place within the perpetual cycle of order and chaos. Nonetheless, the couple is punished simply because the woman spoke first. This theme will unfortunately become increasingly apparent throughout the following centuries, persisting even into modern history.
Act II – Tragedy
Act II - Story
The world that Izanagi and Izanami created began to flourish. Their divine children filled the land and sky, giving form and life to nature. The fruits of their love took the shape of gods of the seas, mountains, rivers, and winds—each one an elemental force that would forever govern the world. Izanami gave birth to Ōyamatsumi (大山津見神), the deity of the great mountains, whose peaks would become the axis of the world, the stable foundation of all existence. Meanwhile, Watatsumi (綿津見神), the god of the seas, brought forth water, which cascaded into valleys, filling the land with rivers and lakes. Each of these children was an essence of the world itself, binding the heavens, earth, and waters into a single unity.
Izanami looked upon her divine offspring with joy, but she also grew weaker. With each new child, her strength waned—the more beautiful the world became, the more it drained her life force. And then, at last, it was time for the final child—a deity that would change everything.
Fire and Death
When Izanami felt the presence of another divine being forming within her, she immediately knew something was different. It was not the warmth of life she felt—it was something burning, destructive. When the day of birth came, the earth trembled, and fiery lightning split the sky. From her womb emerged Kagutsuchi (軻遇突智神), the god of fire, blazing like a thousand suns. He was both magnificent and terrifying, his body pulsing with searing heat, his breath like scorching winds that could melt stone.
But Kagutsuchi's birth had a terrible cost. The flames that carved his path into the world consumed his mother. Fire raged through her body, scorching her from within. Izanami screamed in agony, her skin cracking like parched earth under a drought, while the gods in Takamagahara held their breath in silent horror.
Izanagi knelt beside his beloved, cradling her trembling body. Her breath grew weaker and weaker, her gaze dimmed like the last flickering of an oil lamp before the wick burns out. And when the final sigh escaped her lips, the earth trembled once more—but this time, it was not the sign of new life, but the first death in existence.
At that moment, the world ceased to be a pure realm of creation. With Izanami's death, decay, transience, pain, and endings entered the fabric of reality.
Izanagi’s Wrath and the Bloodshed of a God
Izanagi was not filled with grief alone—he was consumed by rage. But this was not the sorrow of a man losing his beloved—it was the fury of a god whose creation had been torn apart, a wrath so great it could rend the heavens asunder. His eyes burned with a sinister light, and his hands tightened around his tsurugi, the divine sword at his waist.
There was no trial, no doubt. Kagutsuchi, his own child, had become the enemy. He was fire—the force that had consumed Izanami. With one mighty stroke, Izanagi raised his sword and cleaved Kagutsuchi into pieces.
But the blood of a god is unlike that of mortals—from every drop of Kagutsuchi’s divine blood, new deities emerged. Eight mighty gods were born from his spilled essence, beings connected to the forces of storms, thunder, fire, and war. They were children of wrath, destined to bring both destruction and renewal, for in the world of the gods, every death gives birth to something new.
Yet none of these new deities could return Izanami to life. Her soul had vanished from this world. She had departed to a place where no one had ever gone before—Yomi, the realm of shadows, from which no one had ever returned.
Izanagi, the creator of light and life, now stood alone, consumed by grief for what he had lost. He refused to accept this fate.
He made his decision. He would descend into Yomi and bring Izanami back.
Commentary on Act II
The death of Izanami marks the first moment in Japanese mythology where the primordial harmony of creation is disrupted by an irreversible loss. Until now, reality followed a cyclical rhythm—order emerged from chaos, land was born from water, and life flowed from divine union. However, the birth of Kagutsuchi, the god of fire, introduces something new: destruction that does not immediately lead to renewal but to emptiness, decay, and departure. This myth encapsulates the profound Japanese concept of mono no aware (物の哀れ)—the melancholic realization that everything beautiful and perfect is also inherently impermanent. This idea would dominate Japanese aesthetics for centuries, though the term mono no aware itself would only emerge in Edo-period literature in the 18th century.
Fire, which creates, is the same fire that destroys; life, which flows, is always moving toward death. This philosophy—where destruction is as fundamental as creation—permeates Japanese culture, from the fleeting beauty of ume and sakura blossoms to Shintō purification rituals following disasters.
In Act II, we witness a core dialectic in Japanese mythology—the interplay between creative and destructive forces, neither of which is entirely good nor entirely evil. Kagutsuchi, the god of fire, is both the cause of new divine births and the destroyer of his mother, while the blood spilled by Izanagi leads to yet more creation. This expresses the Japanese view of cyclicality and transformation, where every catastrophe is simultaneously the beginning of something new—a belief reflected both in Buddhist ideas of karma and samsara and in Japan’s historical capacity for rebirth following earthquakes, wars, and even the atomic bombings. However, the myth subtly distinguishes between chaos and cyclical order: as long as Izanami and Izanagi create together, the world unfolds gradually and harmoniously; the moment Izanami dies and Izanagi responds to loss with violent retribution, this order collapses into uncontrolled divine bloodshed—a creation that is no longer a deliberate act of cosmic shaping but a rupture in existence itself. This serves as a warning: creation born from rage leads to consequences that even gods cannot foresee or control, foreshadowing the tragedy awaiting Izanagi in Yomi.
Yet the most unsettling aspect of this myth is not Izanami’s death, but her passage into Yomi. In many mythologies, death means the immediate transition of the soul to another realm—but in Japan, death is a process in which the being continues to exist, but in a state of gradual decay and oblivion. Yomi is not a place of punishment, but a realm of stagnation, where life dissolves into shadow and loses its former vitality. This aligns strikingly with Japanese notions of death and remembrance—for centuries, the Japanese have believed that ancestral spirits do not simply “depart” but remain present in the world, gradually fading into dormancy unless they are venerated. Izanagi refuses to accept this reality—thus, he embarks on his desperate descent into Yomi, attempting to rescue his beloved from oblivion. This marks the first instance in Japanese mythology of a divine (yet deeply human) rebellion against the natural order, and at the same time, it reflects something quintessentially Japanese: a painful awareness of impermanence and a simultaneous struggle to accept that nothing lasts forever.
Act III – The Descent into Yomi
Act III - Story
There was no hope, yet Izanagi refused to accept the painful truth. The world he had created was not meant to contain loss and longing, and yet they had become reality. Izanami was gone. Her body was decaying, her soul had drifted into the darkness of Yomi—a place even the gods did not speak of aloud. But Izanagi’s grief gave him the kind of desperate, reckless strength that disregards all taboos. He did not care that no one had ever returned from Yomi. He did not care that death was eternal. He was going to bring her back.
With his sword at his side and a resolve sharper than its blade, he set out for Yomotsu Hirasaka (黄泉津平坂), the narrow stone path leading to the underworld. The air grew heavier, thick with the acrid stench of rot. His footsteps sounded louder, their echoes unnaturally hollow. There was no wind anymore, no sky. Only the road—the road leading downward.
Deep down…
No one should walk this path…
Yomi – The Land of No Return
What they called Yomi (黄泉) was not a place of torment or fire.
It was far worse.
It was emptiness, the remnants of the living world slowly dissolving in darkness. It was a land of shadows, where nothing truly lived, but nothing fully died either. Izanagi’s feet scraped against cold stone, but the sound felt distant, as if it no longer belonged to him. Somewhere in the depths of the blackness, whispers stirred. This was not the language of gods, but something half-dead—a dry, hollow hiss from things that had long forgotten they ever existed.
The darkness was so thick it seeped into his eyes, as if light had never existed.
Is this what death looks like? Izanagi thought.
A silence that isn’t silence.
A time that doesn’t pass.
And then, after what could have been a moment or an eternity, he saw her.
Izanami.
She stood before him, veiled in darkness, just as he remembered her, and yet…
not the same at all.
She was here, and yet her presence felt blurred, as if she no longer belonged to the world he knew.
“Izanami!” His voice rang unnaturally loud, vibrating in a space that should not have been able to hear him.
“Come back with me. The world we created is empty without you.”
For a moment, he thought he saw the shadow of a sad smile on her face.
“I wish I could return,” she answered, her voice soft but not weak.
“But it is too late.”
Izanagi frowned.
“It cannot be too late. I am here. I will open the way for you.”
“You don’t understand…” Her voice sharpened. “I have eaten the food of Yomi.”
Izanagi froze.
I have eaten the food of Yomi.
Those words struck him like a blade he could not parry. The law was absolute—those who consumed the underworld’s food belonged to the underworld. They could never return.
Izanami stared at him for a long moment before speaking again.
“But since you have come… I will ask the rulers of Yomi if I may leave. Wait for me. But promise me one thing—you must not look. Do not enter. Do not seek me in the darkness.”
Do not look.
Do not enter.
Do not seek.
Izanagi nodded. There was no other choice.
The Forbidden Glance
Izanami disappeared into the depths of the void, and Izanagi was left alone.
The silence around him was suffocating, thick and unnatural. The air was dead, and even breathing it felt like a violation.
He waited.
And waited.
And waited.
But how long can one wait in a place where time does not exist?
Izanagi was not human, not mortal—he was a god. But even gods have limits.
What if this was a trick?
What if Izanami was never coming back?
What if death truly was eternal?
He could not stand the darkness anymore.
Not here.
Not among the things that lurked, shifting unseen in the void.
He broke his promise.
In the blackness, he reached into his hair, broke off a tooth from his comb, and pressed it to the ground.
The wood ignited.
And then, he saw her.
But this was not Izanami.
And when she opened her mouth,
she screamed.
Commentary on Act III
Izanagi’s descent into Yomi is the first journey into darkness in Japanese mythology—one that does not offer redemption, but instead reveals the brutal irreversibility of death. In many cultures, a hero who descends into the underworld returns transformed, often gaining wisdom or power. However, in Japan, death is not merely a boundary—it is a realm of disintegration, where everything that once existed undergoes decay. Izanami is no longer the beautiful goddess she once was—she has lost form, becoming a specter, a distorted reflection of the world where nothing pulses with life anymore. This conception of death has remained unchanged in Japan for centuries—unlike Christian or Buddhist views of the afterlife as realms of reward or punishment, Yomi is simply emptiness, a state of suspension.
The motif of the forbidden gaze, which Izanagi violates, is one of the most universal archetypes in world mythology—it appears in the story of Orpheus and Eurydice, as well as in countless legends about souls attempting to return from the underworld. But in Japanese mythology, looking upon the dead—especially in a state of decay—is not merely a transgression but a brutal confrontation with the reality of death. It is not just the breaking of a rule, but the moment of losing an illusion. In this sense, we can see something deeply rooted in Japanese literature and culture—the awareness that the greatest horror is not in the supernatural, but in what is too real to accept. This same tension is present in Japanese horror aesthetics, in films such as Onibaba (1964) or Ju-on (2000), where fear does not arise from death itself, but from the fact that something that should be dead still exists—but in a way that offers no comfort.
Most importantly, Izanagi fails—he cannot retrieve Izanami, nor can he truly see her, because the woman he loved no longer exists. Yomi does not offer closure—it does not provide answers, only takes and never returns anything. This myth reflects Japan’s relationship with death and ancestral remembrance. In Japanese culture, the dead do not completely disappear, but if they are not properly honored, their presence becomes unsettling and ominous. This is why Japan celebrates Obon (お盆)—a festival in which the souls of ancestors briefly return to the world of the living, but must always leave again. What Izanagi does contradicts this philosophy—he tries to pull Izanami back from death instead of accepting her departure. His journey into Yomi is not a triumph of love, but a lesson in the inevitability of loss—as brutal as the image of the rotting body of the goddess itself. It is the first act of defiance against death in Japanese mythology—and its inevitable failure.
Act IV – The Escape from Yomi
Act IV - Story
Izanami’s scream ripped through the darkness. It was a sound that did not belong to the world of the living—a roar that was no longer a voice, but an echo of decay, a wave of despair for lost life and fury that surged through all of Yomi.
This was not the cry of a woman.
This was the howl of the goddess of death.
In an instant, the darkness moved.
Something stirred—quickly, unnaturally, as if the very void that filled Yomi had begun to seethe, violently convulsing.
Izanagi ran.
Behind him, they were coming—yomotsu-shikome (黄泉醜女), the foul hags of the underworld, women with torn mouths, blind stares, and fingers ending in claws sharp as knives. They did not run like mortals, their feet never touched the ground—they glided toward him like a rising shadow.
He had to stop them. He reached into his hair, tore out his comb, and flung it behind him—within seconds, the comb’s jagged teeth transformed into towering bamboo shoots, swelling, bursting with thick, resinous sap, bending under their own weight.
The yomotsu-shikome pounced like starving beasts, clawing, gnawing, tearing.
Izanagi ran on.
The shadows behind him shifted. Izanami had sent more—warriors of Yomi, 1,500 dead souls whose bodies would never decay, doomed to serve the darkness forever.
Izanagi drew his sword and slashed through the air—he did not strike any of them directly, but his fury tore through the very fabric of Yomi.
From the ripped edges of the void, blood gushed forth and turned into fire.
He ran.
He ran toward the light, though he could not yet see it—only feel it.
And then, at last, he saw it—the border between worlds, a thin fissure between shadow and existence, between being and nothingness.
It was Yomotsu Hirasaka (黄泉津平坂), the threshold of Yomi, where the boundaries of reality were so thin they could be torn apart with a single motion.
Izanagi lunged forward.
Death was right behind him.
But he was faster.
He grabbed a colossal boulder, massive as the will of the gods themselves, and slammed it shut over the gateway to the underworld.
The darkness struck the stone.
Unseen hands, voices, fury—all of it crashed against the barrier.
And then, Izanami spoke.
Her voice was calm now—cold.
"If you have abandoned me, my dear husband… then let 1,000 people die in your world every day."
Izanagi clenched his teeth.
He had nothing left to say.
He had no more Izanami.
But he had the world.
"Then… 1,500 people will be born every day."
That was the last thing they ever said to each other.
There was nothing left to say.
The Ritual of Purification and the Birth of New Gods
Izanagi gazed upon the world, which now felt unfamiliar.
The air was clean, yet he could still smell the stench of death on his own skin.
He had to purify himself.
He descended into the river and submerged himself—this was not a simple cleansing, but the first harai (祓), a ritual of purification that would later become a cornerstone of Shintō.
But Yomi did not let go so easily.
As Izanagi washed his face, from his eyes and nose, new gods were born.
From his left eye—Amaterasu (天照), the radiance of the sun.
From his right eye—Tsukuyomi (月読), the tranquility of the moon.
From his nose—Susanoo (須佐之男), the rage of the storm.
They were to rule the world now.
But Izanagi’s role was over.
He had crossed the threshold of death, seen the realm of shadows, and could never forget it.
It was not he who would rule the world of the living now, but the new generation of gods.
Commentary on Act IV and Conclusion
Izanagi’s escape from Yomi is not a victory—it is a severance from something that cannot be understood or accepted. Death is not conquered, nor is it tamed—it is sealed away behind a stone, separated from the world of the living, but still lurking at its borders. This myth reflects the Japanese view of death as something that never fully disappears, but remains in the background, invisible yet real. In Japanese culture, there is no strong concept of an afterlife as a place of reward or punishment—the dead fade away, but they do not completely leave. Their presence can still be felt, whether through ghosts (yūrei) or through memory, rituals, and remembrance.
Izanagi, in his rebellion against death, tried to break this order—he wanted to reclaim what was lost.
But in the end, he had to accept that some things cannot be undone.
The sealing of Yomi and Izanami’s curse marks the first instance in Japanese mythology where the cycle of life and death is established. The myth justifies the eternal order of existence—people die, but they are also born, and death and birth become two equal forces. This concept is deeply ingrained in Japanese philosophy—from the melancholy of mono no aware to the belief that destruction always brings something new.
And so this story ends—not with triumph over death, but with the realization that the world exists only because there is a balance between light and shadow—one that no one can break.
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未開 ソビエライ
An enthusiast of Asian culture with a deep appreciation for the diverse philosophies of the world. By education, a psychologist and philologist specializing in Korean studies. At heart, a programmer (primarily for Android) and a passionate technology enthusiast, as well as a practitioner of Zen and mono no aware. In moments of tranquility, adheres to a disciplined lifestyle, firmly believing that perseverance, continuous personal growth, and dedication to one's passions are the wisest paths in life. Author of the book "Strong Women of Japan" (>>see more)
Personal motto:
"The most powerful force in the universe is compound interest." - Albert Einstein (probably)
Mike Soray
(aka Michał Sobieraj)
未開 ソビエライ
An enthusiast of Asian culture with a deep appreciation for the diverse philosophies of the world. By education, a psychologist and philologist specializing in Korean studies. At heart, a programmer (primarily for Android) and a passionate technology enthusiast, as well as a practitioner of Zen and mono no aware. In moments of tranquility, adheres to a disciplined lifestyle, firmly believing that perseverance, continuous personal growth, and dedication to one's passions are the wisest paths in life. Author of the book "Strong Women of Japan" (>>see more)
Personal motto:
"The most powerful force in the universe is compound interest." - Albert Einstein (probably)
Mike Soray
(aka Michał Sobieraj)
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