"Let us all bow"
To the grey pavement below us
Into the blackness of the shadow we plunge
Until there is light, no more.
I see a red tiger, with all his teeth removed
A bear, being crippled nonetheless
A tree with no leaves, a flower with no petals
Drooping, drowsing
"Let us all bow"
To the undying world of
death below us.
I can see the flow of sludge
An unending stream of twigs and stones
So slow, yet so viscous and inescapable
Purple bubbles of toxin threatening to swallow your mind
"Let us all bow"
To the boundless swamp of
torturing comfort.
I can see the thick silver clouds
Sweeping by, undeterred.
This is the world outside
This is when we stop reaching
"Let us all bow"
To the reality of void
and unfulfilled dreams.
I see a world above
Way above
Unreachable
Even more
"Let us all bow"
To god
To god be
be the
"Let us all bow"
Because it is too difficult to look up
Because we are already ten years behind.
At five o'clock in the morning.
Thursday, 12 March 2015
Saturday, 7 March 2015
Reminiscence
Picking this instrument up again is strange, as if my previous life has suddenly granted me a new talent to create music with this utterly unfamiliar tool I hold dearly close to me. For some even more strange reason, it occurs not anywhere familiar, but in a place where a foreign culture resides, thousands of miles away from where I would call home.
These pieces should not have stricken me with so much emotion. Honestly, it did not, until the day of the concert. When the entirety of the music is put together, everything suddenly became literal, and almost palpable to me. Memories of my time in various orchestras suddenly sprang back to me. The days of blind optimism, of one day becoming whom I witness in front of me, commanding an army to fight against the evil (was there even an evil?). Of course, all these foolish dreams disappeared into thin air as I grew up, as I learnt of the harsh truths of life (not that I am much more knowledgeable/wise now). Despite the tone, lingering whiffs of sadness and nostalgia still emerge from the seemingly blissful melody. To me, I cannot but look at this piece and sympathize with the lament for the time when I could dream endlessly, of infinite grandiose and power, to be the best of the best.
(Interesting how I played this about 8 years ago. Such a different feeling and interpretation of the exact same melody)
It was not this piece that hit me the hardest though. I have never heard of the following (group of) pieces before, nor have I ever read the novel itself. All I knew was that this was kind of a drawn out melody that kept repeating itself. Seemingly pointless, but when it gradually stuck in my head I realized how much significance it had gained inside my mind. It probably was the first moment since I came here that I felt genuinely homesick. Ah, perhaps homesick is not the right word, since I barely recognize it as a malady. It is not something to be cured of. It is all but natural: A sense of identity. Drawing out these notes with the bow, I almost felt the feeling akin to a foreigner looking at Chinese culture for the first time. This is extremely strange, considering my own nationality. Perhaps if I point towards something resembling the feeling of Fan Liuyuan in Love in a Fallen City my point could be clearer: A kind of dreary optimism about... almost nothing. Over these few days I repeatedly questioned myself of my identity, and, more importantly, what have I become, and where will I end up. Am I still able to maintain my own standpoint, my own identity, or am I doomed to reminisce my past identities, and lose myself in the flowing river like a drifting log?
(My favourite movement, for some unknown reason)
Perhaps participating in this concert strongly reminded me that I exist as a Chinese, a foreigner in this unfamiliar city, that I have a real home, and that my past does exist: My foolish self, impulsive, emotional and uncontrollable. These sentiments were one of the strongest I have ever felt in my life, almost an awakening, a refreshment from the endless responsibilities I am partaking and will partake in the near future. I am infinitely glad that I decided to crawl out my room and pick up this instrument again. Finally, perhaps this is a major part of the answer I am looking for, why Sisyphus continues to lift his rock day after day.
These pieces should not have stricken me with so much emotion. Honestly, it did not, until the day of the concert. When the entirety of the music is put together, everything suddenly became literal, and almost palpable to me. Memories of my time in various orchestras suddenly sprang back to me. The days of blind optimism, of one day becoming whom I witness in front of me, commanding an army to fight against the evil (was there even an evil?). Of course, all these foolish dreams disappeared into thin air as I grew up, as I learnt of the harsh truths of life (not that I am much more knowledgeable/wise now). Despite the tone, lingering whiffs of sadness and nostalgia still emerge from the seemingly blissful melody. To me, I cannot but look at this piece and sympathize with the lament for the time when I could dream endlessly, of infinite grandiose and power, to be the best of the best.
(Interesting how I played this about 8 years ago. Such a different feeling and interpretation of the exact same melody)
It was not this piece that hit me the hardest though. I have never heard of the following (group of) pieces before, nor have I ever read the novel itself. All I knew was that this was kind of a drawn out melody that kept repeating itself. Seemingly pointless, but when it gradually stuck in my head I realized how much significance it had gained inside my mind. It probably was the first moment since I came here that I felt genuinely homesick. Ah, perhaps homesick is not the right word, since I barely recognize it as a malady. It is not something to be cured of. It is all but natural: A sense of identity. Drawing out these notes with the bow, I almost felt the feeling akin to a foreigner looking at Chinese culture for the first time. This is extremely strange, considering my own nationality. Perhaps if I point towards something resembling the feeling of Fan Liuyuan in Love in a Fallen City my point could be clearer: A kind of dreary optimism about... almost nothing. Over these few days I repeatedly questioned myself of my identity, and, more importantly, what have I become, and where will I end up. Am I still able to maintain my own standpoint, my own identity, or am I doomed to reminisce my past identities, and lose myself in the flowing river like a drifting log?
(My favourite movement, for some unknown reason)
Perhaps participating in this concert strongly reminded me that I exist as a Chinese, a foreigner in this unfamiliar city, that I have a real home, and that my past does exist: My foolish self, impulsive, emotional and uncontrollable. These sentiments were one of the strongest I have ever felt in my life, almost an awakening, a refreshment from the endless responsibilities I am partaking and will partake in the near future. I am infinitely glad that I decided to crawl out my room and pick up this instrument again. Finally, perhaps this is a major part of the answer I am looking for, why Sisyphus continues to lift his rock day after day.
Saturday, 14 February 2015
City (unfettered rambling)
Is it possible to love this city anymore?
He, for one, finds loving inanimate objects a very strange idea. It is a one-way love, an infatuation, at the very worst. The cement, roads, metal, neon... all lifeless and cold from the constant overcast. Every colour that he sees is dulled shadows, making the whole field of view nothing but a mess of molten oily refraction and diffraction. The population passes by each other, each to their own. He sees all faces, yet he looks at none of them, for every single one of the appearances are dull, meaningless. Torrents of shoulders pass by each other, completely chaotic and absurd. He cannot even stand more than a minute in this orgy of deathly wanderings.
But one thing draws his attention: The cherry blossom trees. For some irrational reasons, the trees emit an aura, a pink, cordial aura, drawing him in. His physical body remains intact, yet his soul gets absorbed in the fantastical world of nostalgia (or is it nostalgia?). He feels that his memory is forever embedded in these waving blossoms, and only here, in this magical summer night, where orbs of light glow softly, yet perpetually. And only here he finds the meaning of being, the meaning of love.
Yet, the dark waves of malice crash upon the shore of this city every day. While the cherry grows day by day, and the technology of this city (along with the blossoms) advance rapidly, the melancholic acid seeps through the bastion known as civilization. He dislikes the idea of being confined within the walls of security, yet it nonetheless protects him from wallowing in his past, his irrational past.
He would gaze beyond the bastion, beyond what light can cover, into the abyss if you must. and he would see none but his own reflection. Terribly religious, ridiculously devout to the faith of future, for he believed that beyond the miles of shadows laid with corpses with a stench known as regret there would be a beacon of light, or just a torch of hope, a slit of warmth, or a glowing orb, beyond the blood covered ground of violence and greed.
He has been told never to venture anywhere beyond these walls, for any conceivable distance from the front door is uncertainty, chaos, and no one would, in their right mind, expect to confront the chaos. Yet something seems not right. This is not confinement: He can go wherever he wants, provided he is within the safety of the walls; nor is this imprisonment: He has freedom! It is most reasonable, rational to protect oneself from the wallowing macabre darkness in front of him.
Right in front of him. The future. He is ever closer to it, second by second.
He knows the cherry blossoms are but memory, holographic projections onto his mind. So real, yet so impalpable. It did exist once, but in his mind it existed forever. He fell madly in love below these trees. He did the most irrational things, the most sensational of all sentiments flowed as a waterfall. He sang, danced (though he had never done any of these in the past: He would not even conceive himself doing them!). It was where he found himself, his true self.
Yet it was all in the past.
Will there be cherry blossoms beyond this wall?
His thoughts grew, blossomed, expanded, like a bright spark, a concentrated burst of pure light. The brightest candle flame emerged within him, slowly permeating outwards. It propagated through his thoughts, his time, his memories, and cleansed his heart. Soon, the blossoms sang its flames, a harmonic unison with the city, which, no later than an instant, clapped in combustion. Nothing material is left in him anymore, nor is there any left within the city around him, that he loved dearly. He, the observer of this city, the one of million, the speck in the crowd, becomes no more, and so does the town, the blossoms, the wall... and everything that he once remembered and loved, hated, was passionate and infatuated about. He no longer has a self, nor a past. The future opens up to him, like an endless cave, an infinite tunnel, a converging, enticing point.
It is from here that he truly knows that he exists.
Take me there, Nagisa.
He, for one, finds loving inanimate objects a very strange idea. It is a one-way love, an infatuation, at the very worst. The cement, roads, metal, neon... all lifeless and cold from the constant overcast. Every colour that he sees is dulled shadows, making the whole field of view nothing but a mess of molten oily refraction and diffraction. The population passes by each other, each to their own. He sees all faces, yet he looks at none of them, for every single one of the appearances are dull, meaningless. Torrents of shoulders pass by each other, completely chaotic and absurd. He cannot even stand more than a minute in this orgy of deathly wanderings.
But one thing draws his attention: The cherry blossom trees. For some irrational reasons, the trees emit an aura, a pink, cordial aura, drawing him in. His physical body remains intact, yet his soul gets absorbed in the fantastical world of nostalgia (or is it nostalgia?). He feels that his memory is forever embedded in these waving blossoms, and only here, in this magical summer night, where orbs of light glow softly, yet perpetually. And only here he finds the meaning of being, the meaning of love.
Yet, the dark waves of malice crash upon the shore of this city every day. While the cherry grows day by day, and the technology of this city (along with the blossoms) advance rapidly, the melancholic acid seeps through the bastion known as civilization. He dislikes the idea of being confined within the walls of security, yet it nonetheless protects him from wallowing in his past, his irrational past.
He would gaze beyond the bastion, beyond what light can cover, into the abyss if you must. and he would see none but his own reflection. Terribly religious, ridiculously devout to the faith of future, for he believed that beyond the miles of shadows laid with corpses with a stench known as regret there would be a beacon of light, or just a torch of hope, a slit of warmth, or a glowing orb, beyond the blood covered ground of violence and greed.
He has been told never to venture anywhere beyond these walls, for any conceivable distance from the front door is uncertainty, chaos, and no one would, in their right mind, expect to confront the chaos. Yet something seems not right. This is not confinement: He can go wherever he wants, provided he is within the safety of the walls; nor is this imprisonment: He has freedom! It is most reasonable, rational to protect oneself from the wallowing macabre darkness in front of him.
Right in front of him. The future. He is ever closer to it, second by second.
He knows the cherry blossoms are but memory, holographic projections onto his mind. So real, yet so impalpable. It did exist once, but in his mind it existed forever. He fell madly in love below these trees. He did the most irrational things, the most sensational of all sentiments flowed as a waterfall. He sang, danced (though he had never done any of these in the past: He would not even conceive himself doing them!). It was where he found himself, his true self.
Yet it was all in the past.
Will there be cherry blossoms beyond this wall?
His thoughts grew, blossomed, expanded, like a bright spark, a concentrated burst of pure light. The brightest candle flame emerged within him, slowly permeating outwards. It propagated through his thoughts, his time, his memories, and cleansed his heart. Soon, the blossoms sang its flames, a harmonic unison with the city, which, no later than an instant, clapped in combustion. Nothing material is left in him anymore, nor is there any left within the city around him, that he loved dearly. He, the observer of this city, the one of million, the speck in the crowd, becomes no more, and so does the town, the blossoms, the wall... and everything that he once remembered and loved, hated, was passionate and infatuated about. He no longer has a self, nor a past. The future opens up to him, like an endless cave, an infinite tunnel, a converging, enticing point.
It is from here that he truly knows that he exists.
Take me there, Nagisa.
Wednesday, 7 January 2015
Bother
Two thoughts have been bothering me lately.
1. Traveling scares me.
I have no idea why sitting in an airplane with numerous measures to prevent one from getting bored or feeling claustrophobic is a scary prospect. The moment I leave for the airport, watching familiar buildings flash by, countless pedestrians drifting around, simply minding their own business, going on with their usual lives, while I am sent on this journey that takes me to somewhere way far, unimaginably so if you think carefully. Tens of thousands of times the distance reachable by walking, myriads the amount of distance from my usual routine roaming. Can you comprehend how far I will be from you in a few hours, stranger?
Perhaps it is the uncertainty, how you never know what will happen in the journey ahead. I talk not of misfortunes, but of the random occurrences, the thought that once I started, I will never go back. The point of no return. The idea of home always comforts me, unchanging, comfortable, constant. This may make me seem like a coward, a person who cannot handle change, and in fact, I am. It is just how I was born to be.
But I know that change should bring something good. There must be a reason why I chose this path, why, initially, I decided to pursue this route, to send myself thousands of miles, two continents away from my home, to this strange, unfamiliar place, where all I have is myself.
All of this hanging on the ever so delicate thread called hope.
In other words, I fear.
2.(Heavy spoilers of Steins;Gate, Disappearance of Haruhi, Clannad and Link's Awakening ahead. Proceed with caution)
Is there something worse than death?
I have come to known that there in fact is. It is to fade away from existence completely, without a trace, and have no one ever remember you ever again. Gone. Erased.
Numerous animes and games have exploited this to an emotional and moral effect: Okabe in Steins;Gate, Haruhi (or rather the entire SOS brigade community) in her movie, Fuko in Clannad, and the entire Koholint Island in Link's Awakening. No memories are retained, like someone waking from a dream. Everyone carries on with their duties, with no more mentions of you, no more concern for you.
This is why we strive to strike an impact on everyone we want to meet, I suppose, even if we know we, eventually are going to die. We need to prove to the world that we existed, we have once breathed the air on Earth, we have once been young, and reckless, have once been mature, and loved, and cared, and contributed to the flowing river of history.
But in the long run, in the future of humanity, of post humanity, we will eventually be forgotten. Even if history books mentioned us, we have limited capacities in our brains, and once we die we can no longer access our memory. Computers will decay into lifeless metal, books will be decomposed by worms. No knowledge is eternal. It vaporizes eventually, as easily as the flick of an electrical switch, a tap of a button. Gone.
This poses a huge problem to the philosophy of life. Why do we live on even if we know it is going to end? All meaning will be lost once we are forgotten, and the time which the world takes to forget us is finite, though inconceivably long in our standards. Is this an indication of why lies are as important as truth? Without the illusion of eternity, we (or at least I) will be constantly challenged by waves upon waves of Nihilism. Does seeking the truth require illusions to grant itself purpose, or is it meaningless after all? Camus tells us to find the meanings ourselves among this absurdity, but at times, I really struggle. At times, I do feel similar to the player mentioned by Macbeth, strutting and fretting in his hour upon the stage, but then, like an extinguished candle, is heard of no more.
In this sense, we are naive. Everyone is naive to their eventual fate. Perhaps some may be more clairvoyant, ore observant of this fact. But for a narrow-minded, antisocial person like me, I cannot but relent myself to the deathly grasp of Nihilism.
Thank you for listening.
"If you wish, would you like me to take you
To the place in this city where wishes come true?"
1. Traveling scares me.
I have no idea why sitting in an airplane with numerous measures to prevent one from getting bored or feeling claustrophobic is a scary prospect. The moment I leave for the airport, watching familiar buildings flash by, countless pedestrians drifting around, simply minding their own business, going on with their usual lives, while I am sent on this journey that takes me to somewhere way far, unimaginably so if you think carefully. Tens of thousands of times the distance reachable by walking, myriads the amount of distance from my usual routine roaming. Can you comprehend how far I will be from you in a few hours, stranger?
Perhaps it is the uncertainty, how you never know what will happen in the journey ahead. I talk not of misfortunes, but of the random occurrences, the thought that once I started, I will never go back. The point of no return. The idea of home always comforts me, unchanging, comfortable, constant. This may make me seem like a coward, a person who cannot handle change, and in fact, I am. It is just how I was born to be.
But I know that change should bring something good. There must be a reason why I chose this path, why, initially, I decided to pursue this route, to send myself thousands of miles, two continents away from my home, to this strange, unfamiliar place, where all I have is myself.
All of this hanging on the ever so delicate thread called hope.
In other words, I fear.
2.(Heavy spoilers of Steins;Gate, Disappearance of Haruhi, Clannad and Link's Awakening ahead. Proceed with caution)
Is there something worse than death?
I have come to known that there in fact is. It is to fade away from existence completely, without a trace, and have no one ever remember you ever again. Gone. Erased.
Numerous animes and games have exploited this to an emotional and moral effect: Okabe in Steins;Gate, Haruhi (or rather the entire SOS brigade community) in her movie, Fuko in Clannad, and the entire Koholint Island in Link's Awakening. No memories are retained, like someone waking from a dream. Everyone carries on with their duties, with no more mentions of you, no more concern for you.
This is why we strive to strike an impact on everyone we want to meet, I suppose, even if we know we, eventually are going to die. We need to prove to the world that we existed, we have once breathed the air on Earth, we have once been young, and reckless, have once been mature, and loved, and cared, and contributed to the flowing river of history.
But in the long run, in the future of humanity, of post humanity, we will eventually be forgotten. Even if history books mentioned us, we have limited capacities in our brains, and once we die we can no longer access our memory. Computers will decay into lifeless metal, books will be decomposed by worms. No knowledge is eternal. It vaporizes eventually, as easily as the flick of an electrical switch, a tap of a button. Gone.
This poses a huge problem to the philosophy of life. Why do we live on even if we know it is going to end? All meaning will be lost once we are forgotten, and the time which the world takes to forget us is finite, though inconceivably long in our standards. Is this an indication of why lies are as important as truth? Without the illusion of eternity, we (or at least I) will be constantly challenged by waves upon waves of Nihilism. Does seeking the truth require illusions to grant itself purpose, or is it meaningless after all? Camus tells us to find the meanings ourselves among this absurdity, but at times, I really struggle. At times, I do feel similar to the player mentioned by Macbeth, strutting and fretting in his hour upon the stage, but then, like an extinguished candle, is heard of no more.
In this sense, we are naive. Everyone is naive to their eventual fate. Perhaps some may be more clairvoyant, ore observant of this fact. But for a narrow-minded, antisocial person like me, I cannot but relent myself to the deathly grasp of Nihilism.
Thank you for listening.
"If you wish, would you like me to take you
To the place in this city where wishes come true?"
Wednesday, 24 December 2014
Snow
I come from a country without snow.
The only times where I have seen snow occur abroad when I am traveling. Snow, therefore, is foreign to me, a concept that is impalpable. Bits and bits of crystalline flake drop from the grey, pale sky, forming a horizon full of white and greyscale, an endless lack of colour. It not only drains the vision of my surroundings, but also the smell, the life, the soul, striking up none but apathy in my heart.
Is this what they call happiness? To relish in the entertainment that crystallized water brings, to engage in false hopes that constructed beings contain life at all. They are hearths of fire burning in the snow, as if the laws of nature bend to accommodate them. Or are they just holding up flags of red, pretending to be blazing? In this distance I can no longer tell, no do I really care.
Is this what they call bliss? The feeling of togetherness, of warmth of the company. Clearly this would be very contradictory, something I cannot ever comprehend. One by one they fall, the poor tender cotton, until they homogeneously dissolve into the unforgiving coldness of the ground, to fade into the grey, but to be stepped upon, to be reverted back to water, to be brushed to one strange side of the road and be ever forgotten, ever trampled upon.
Is this what they call generosity? Slices of red, green, yellow... Seem to be an attempt to nullify the endless miles of dullness. But when the truthful flakes fall upon these false colours, the messenger of cleansing, none of these colours remain, all reverting to dye, flowing in a sheen of corrupted rainbow down the river of sighs.
Is this what they call love? I dare not, but look askance, for my heart is already frozen over, and, if taken to hell, would not thaw. I am the most evil of them all.
But in this season of snow, I feel that it is time that I look into the snowflake, and stare into my own reflection, to gain an introspection. Perhaps I may see darkness, or light, who knows. All I know is the uncertainty, the layers upon layers of black and white that I will have to peel through. And perhaps after an eon I would realize, that I am but a human after all.
(http://raymondthang.files.wordpress.com/2013/11/800px-the_disappearance_of_haruhi_suzumiya_movie.png)
The only times where I have seen snow occur abroad when I am traveling. Snow, therefore, is foreign to me, a concept that is impalpable. Bits and bits of crystalline flake drop from the grey, pale sky, forming a horizon full of white and greyscale, an endless lack of colour. It not only drains the vision of my surroundings, but also the smell, the life, the soul, striking up none but apathy in my heart.
Is this what they call happiness? To relish in the entertainment that crystallized water brings, to engage in false hopes that constructed beings contain life at all. They are hearths of fire burning in the snow, as if the laws of nature bend to accommodate them. Or are they just holding up flags of red, pretending to be blazing? In this distance I can no longer tell, no do I really care.
Is this what they call bliss? The feeling of togetherness, of warmth of the company. Clearly this would be very contradictory, something I cannot ever comprehend. One by one they fall, the poor tender cotton, until they homogeneously dissolve into the unforgiving coldness of the ground, to fade into the grey, but to be stepped upon, to be reverted back to water, to be brushed to one strange side of the road and be ever forgotten, ever trampled upon.
Is this what they call generosity? Slices of red, green, yellow... Seem to be an attempt to nullify the endless miles of dullness. But when the truthful flakes fall upon these false colours, the messenger of cleansing, none of these colours remain, all reverting to dye, flowing in a sheen of corrupted rainbow down the river of sighs.
Is this what they call love? I dare not, but look askance, for my heart is already frozen over, and, if taken to hell, would not thaw. I am the most evil of them all.
But in this season of snow, I feel that it is time that I look into the snowflake, and stare into my own reflection, to gain an introspection. Perhaps I may see darkness, or light, who knows. All I know is the uncertainty, the layers upon layers of black and white that I will have to peel through. And perhaps after an eon I would realize, that I am but a human after all.
(http://raymondthang.files.wordpress.com/2013/11/800px-the_disappearance_of_haruhi_suzumiya_movie.png)
Sunday, 14 December 2014
The most beautiful clown
And it all will fade to black
Who are you, you who follow me
Whether daylight shines, or moonlight dims
Ever mimicking my actions, my posture
My emotions, my soul.
What a fool you are
To pretend to be someone
Fading.
Did you come from the past
A ghost, to haunt me of my sins
To creep up to my soul and declare war
To disarm me, without any force
What a fool you are
To mimic someone
Fading.
Do you come from the future
To drag me into the twilight
Into the underworld of uncertainty
Into the depths of eternity
I shall be banished
And you, along with me
Shall perish.
Are you me, are you me
Do you feel, do you think
Can you talk, can you hate
Shall you love? Shall you love?
You are none but my puppet
A puppet that controls me
A puppet that turns life astray.
Do you dare look into the mirror
Face yourself, face the light
Face the reflecting persona
I dare you, doppelganger.
You are but an empty me
To assume that I have substance
You are there to mock me
I will dim the lights
Hide indoors, close the curtains
Blind the windows of sight
But you will not go.
You will linger in the pale moonlight
A rectangular projection of limestone
And you will be there, you will be there
Eternally to mock me, to mock me.
Who are you, you who follow me
Whether daylight shines, or moonlight dims
Ever mimicking my actions, my posture
My emotions, my soul.
What a fool you are
To pretend to be someone
Fading.
Did you come from the past
A ghost, to haunt me of my sins
To creep up to my soul and declare war
To disarm me, without any force
What a fool you are
To mimic someone
Fading.
Do you come from the future
To drag me into the twilight
Into the underworld of uncertainty
Into the depths of eternity
I shall be banished
And you, along with me
Shall perish.
Are you me, are you me
Do you feel, do you think
Can you talk, can you hate
Shall you love? Shall you love?
You are none but my puppet
A puppet that controls me
A puppet that turns life astray.
Do you dare look into the mirror
Face yourself, face the light
Face the reflecting persona
I dare you, doppelganger.
You are but an empty me
To assume that I have substance
You are there to mock me
I will dim the lights
Hide indoors, close the curtains
Blind the windows of sight
But you will not go.
You will linger in the pale moonlight
A rectangular projection of limestone
And you will be there, you will be there
Eternally to mock me, to mock me.
Sunday, 7 December 2014
On "Steins;Gate"
"I've only lived 18 years, but I don't want to change any of them. They're all part of my life, even the failures" -Kurisu Makise
Steins;Gate is truly, absolutely one of the most striking and profound animes (given what I have watched that doesn't say a lot actually. I am also aware that I am around 3 years late). To start with just listen to this genius of an OP:
I watched from episode 18 right till the end in one sitting. It is the first anime, or even any show to glue me to the seat, disturbing my mind until I reach the end, and propel me to write something here to praise it.
Steins;Gate's plot could be described as an experiment on time, or fate itself. It parallels the protagonist, Rintarou Okabe's mind in discovering the secrets behind time travel. From a curious endeavor, a practical (and exciting) discovery to realization of the dire consequences of manipulating timelines, Okabe attempts to undo the profound imbalances he and his fellow "lab members" have stricken upon the delicate fabric of time, or "world lines", through the butterfly effect. The whole plot only lasts for merely three weeks in the life of every member, everyone except Okabe, who jumps back and forth in time, witnessing tragedies happen over and over again as he battles constantly against overpowering antagonists, fate, and most importantly, his own psyche.
The show, despite having heavy fantastical elements, stays true to the virtue of time travel experiments and scientific exploration, uncovering unknown technology that attracts danger. It allows the viewer to get into the head of a commonplace man suddenly dragged into the fray, and wished this all had never happened. The use of repetition magnifies the trauma Okabe receives in the span of his perilous journey to save his companions (and the world, but *cough* spoilers *cough*). The use of cold and sometimes dark colour schemes really bring out the heavy tone of the whole piece, along with the clever use of imagery, introspection and foreshadowing. The awesome and epic music makes this show almost perfect (apart from the slightly too bombastic character of Okabe and the seldom "poisonous" moments).
Many may think that time travel is the dream of mankind, being able to rectify mistakes made in the past, build a perfect story of humankind. Steins;Gate crushes this dream and throws its debris back at the viewer, setting the question whether time travel is something we desire, whether humans are, after all, "temporal creatures who in fact exist as time, within time", and are best left alone this way, or is there a way to cheat fate, to break the shackles of the world line (the "divergence limit"), whether there is a possibility to put time travel to a good, responsible use.
Steins;Gate is truly, absolutely one of the most striking and profound animes (given what I have watched that doesn't say a lot actually. I am also aware that I am around 3 years late). To start with just listen to this genius of an OP:
I watched from episode 18 right till the end in one sitting. It is the first anime, or even any show to glue me to the seat, disturbing my mind until I reach the end, and propel me to write something here to praise it.
Steins;Gate's plot could be described as an experiment on time, or fate itself. It parallels the protagonist, Rintarou Okabe's mind in discovering the secrets behind time travel. From a curious endeavor, a practical (and exciting) discovery to realization of the dire consequences of manipulating timelines, Okabe attempts to undo the profound imbalances he and his fellow "lab members" have stricken upon the delicate fabric of time, or "world lines", through the butterfly effect. The whole plot only lasts for merely three weeks in the life of every member, everyone except Okabe, who jumps back and forth in time, witnessing tragedies happen over and over again as he battles constantly against overpowering antagonists, fate, and most importantly, his own psyche.
The show, despite having heavy fantastical elements, stays true to the virtue of time travel experiments and scientific exploration, uncovering unknown technology that attracts danger. It allows the viewer to get into the head of a commonplace man suddenly dragged into the fray, and wished this all had never happened. The use of repetition magnifies the trauma Okabe receives in the span of his perilous journey to save his companions (and the world, but *cough* spoilers *cough*). The use of cold and sometimes dark colour schemes really bring out the heavy tone of the whole piece, along with the clever use of imagery, introspection and foreshadowing. The awesome and epic music makes this show almost perfect (apart from the slightly too bombastic character of Okabe and the seldom "poisonous" moments).
Many may think that time travel is the dream of mankind, being able to rectify mistakes made in the past, build a perfect story of humankind. Steins;Gate crushes this dream and throws its debris back at the viewer, setting the question whether time travel is something we desire, whether humans are, after all, "temporal creatures who in fact exist as time, within time", and are best left alone this way, or is there a way to cheat fate, to break the shackles of the world line (the "divergence limit"), whether there is a possibility to put time travel to a good, responsible use.
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