The reason the grass always looks greener on the other side is likely because one’s own lawn is not green enough. The choice then becomes: do you nurture your own grass, or do you burn your neighbor’s? In the modern era, the latter is overwhelmingly more common. In Japan, people often speak of a sense of social stagnation, economic decline, and the “lost 30 or 40 years,” but to me, this seems like an inevitable outcome.
Grass is expected to be green. Of course, one could choose to believe that it doesn’t have to be. However, that implies accepting withered grass—an acceptance of aging. Attempting to dye the grass a different color is difficult, as it hinders respiration and photosynthesis. It is synonymous with performing as someone other than yourself.
When everyone strives for lush, green grass, a vast meadow spreads across the horizon. As a single landscape, it is beautiful. Yet, it becomes difficult to discern where your lawn ends and your neighbor’s begins. A fence, naturally, would make it clear. One could say that the pursuit of this seamless landscape defines the globalism of the Left, while the act of erecting fences defines the Conservatives.
In this context, the flourishing grass represents a person’s way of life and their outlook on existence. Humans live vibrantly and eventually grow old; this is a human universal. While the values espoused by the Left are diverse, they ultimately converge upon this universal. Conversely, because perspectives on life are so varied, one could argue that erecting fences is actually what preserves true diversity.
Building fences secures diversity, but this raises a question: how is the human universal lost? Or is it already being lost? In modern society, these fences are low. When the color of the neighbor’s grass is easily visible, perhaps the urge to burn it down is an unconscious rebellion against that single, seamless landscape. Yet, if the enclosing fences are too high, the horizon and the sky we can perceive will surely be narrowed.
