Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow...
What do you think you are doing? What do you want? Why are you here? For years I have been asking myself these questions. I live for myself, fight for myself, for surviving another day in this ruthless world of competition. But then you appeared, and I stopped questioning myself, for you are, by any measure, a much more interesting person to question than myself.
From the first time I saw you I find you laughable, perversely detached from reality. To fight for justice, to fight for happiness, hope, order... How ridiculous. Life is too short to care about anything other than your own survival. How many times do you have to fail to learn this?
In some sense I understand how you feel. Your happiness derives from others'. Yet, isn't this the worst form of disability? To rely on others all the time, to depend on situations where uncertainty rules high for your own well-being. Only foolish girls would fall for this blatant trap.
Aren't we all specks on the never ceasing arrow of entropy? Our existence has always been doomed to end in an entropic manner. No one can reverse the force of irreversibility. It is a written law above us all. So you think you, making a wish for someone who doesn't even love you, would somehow reverse this never-ending cycle of doom? I am here to tell you miracles are thus named because they do not happen. The laws of this universe do not operate on sympathy.
Red. All the red around us. The colour of blood, of sacrifice, of fiery passion. How fitting in this occasion. In you I have found my past, my foolish self who never doused her flames of destructive fantasies. I, like you, have only recently been revealed to the truth. It almost took your life, yet you continue to march majestically into this gaping trench. Is your life worth so little that you are willing to throw away for nothing?
How ironic that the most beautiful insects are also the most deadly, the brightest flames destroys the most, that the most kind-hearted person brings upon the most tragic death. And now, the hopeful of them meets the most aloof, so desensitised to the tragedy of our kind. Perhaps it is true after all that the extremes always merge back into a cycle, as if time loops around itself, and I am here to meet my own self again. How ironic, that I now shall fight myself. What have you done, Fate? The mighty sorceress, who transcends time and space, lusting over the glowing essence of all that we call hope, till all that remains is but an empty core of despair over extinguished candles.
My concerto is coming to an end. The brass flourish, tremolo from the strings, trills from the winds... All instruments awaiting for the final swing of my bow. So let me defy you once, Fate, let me defy you just once. Let me be both death and her maiden, and seal my last vestige into this realm.
Sunday, 26 April 2015
Monday, 20 April 2015
Identity
(Way overdue from November last year. In before why not Chinese cartoons?)
His life lasted for merely 61 years, yet he has seen the rise and fall of three dynasties, the struggle for the people who had been slaves of his race for three centuries rise up against him, with himself going from an oblivious emperor living inside the golden shell of a palace to nothing but dust, among hundreds of millions of others, witnessing the tumultuous birth of what China is today. What would such a man recognize himself as? Does he even have an identity?
I came across the TV series Extraordinary Citizen (非常公民) a few months ago (while procrastinating during the IB exams), which portrayed the last emperor of Qing, Aisin-Gioro Puyi with superb attention of him as a person instead of what role he fulfills in the eyes of the common folk. Though the show centres upon his romantic life (which is also quite interesting), it is the candid portrayal of Puyi's psyche as he was, suddenly in the middle of his childhood, ripped from his position by the breaking out of the revolution, eventually declining into being the puppet of the Japanese empire, and even as a war prisoner to be "re-educated" by Russian and Chinese Communists that interested me the most. After wasting half of his life trying to fulfill his delusion to be an emperor, in the process sacrificing his dignity, his power, his freedom, and eventually his sanity and, most importantly, his identity as a person. The incredible detail carved onto Puyi makes the man marking the end of imperial China extremely easy to relate, as I learnt how Puyi, the supposedly most powerful person in the whole of China, was still unable to escape the flow of time, floating helplessly as a piece of log.
Puyi threw away his love, his life and his humanity for one sole purpose: To search for his lost identity. He lived the first two decades of his life as an emperor (unofficially, as he was unaware of). When the truth of his powerlessness eventually broke in (fairly well hidden from him by the officials around him), he sought to stay as an emperor, and eventually, under the convincing of the Japanese, willingly gave in everything. He knew of nothing but to be an emperor, as his whole life hitherto was filled with this role. He had no skills, but an enormous ego, an ego that all emperors were taught to have and reasonably possessed and infinitely inflated. To him, this ego is everything, everything his life meant.
Today, we look at Puyi askance, wondering why he betrayed his people, questioning the true motives behind his actions. Yet, his life of frantic search for an identity poses a very profound challenge to what we mean by purpose; specifically, the purpose of life, the ultimate purpose. The meaning of life (certainly not 42) is complex, and no one would claim to have/be able to grasp it fully in his/her short life. This turns me to wonder if the search of meaning itself is the meaning itself, that when we realize the vastness of possibilities and uncertainty do we, ironically, begin our search and consolidate the meaning of life.
Here, identity plays an important role. To have an identity means to be realized as a part of a community, to play a role in the course of history, and perhaps to make a mark, because we know that only through this can we make ourselves permanent in memory of the future, that we can be remembered as what we want to be remembered as. Thus, I daresay that this makes us immortal to a certain extent. With immortality being one of the dreams of humanity, identity, defining the direction of human life, perhaps has become what we mean by life itself.
In this ever changing world, almost nothing stays constant, even if it is not always apparent as in Puyi's world. To become an identifiable person is more and more of a challenge in the age of dream-seeking, with fate forever diverting the expected course of life. Yet, can we still embrace this rapid and uncertain flow? Can we get hold of what we are currently, and live with acceptance but vision?
For me, forgetfulness comes to play.
His life lasted for merely 61 years, yet he has seen the rise and fall of three dynasties, the struggle for the people who had been slaves of his race for three centuries rise up against him, with himself going from an oblivious emperor living inside the golden shell of a palace to nothing but dust, among hundreds of millions of others, witnessing the tumultuous birth of what China is today. What would such a man recognize himself as? Does he even have an identity?
I came across the TV series Extraordinary Citizen (非常公民) a few months ago (while procrastinating during the IB exams), which portrayed the last emperor of Qing, Aisin-Gioro Puyi with superb attention of him as a person instead of what role he fulfills in the eyes of the common folk. Though the show centres upon his romantic life (which is also quite interesting), it is the candid portrayal of Puyi's psyche as he was, suddenly in the middle of his childhood, ripped from his position by the breaking out of the revolution, eventually declining into being the puppet of the Japanese empire, and even as a war prisoner to be "re-educated" by Russian and Chinese Communists that interested me the most. After wasting half of his life trying to fulfill his delusion to be an emperor, in the process sacrificing his dignity, his power, his freedom, and eventually his sanity and, most importantly, his identity as a person. The incredible detail carved onto Puyi makes the man marking the end of imperial China extremely easy to relate, as I learnt how Puyi, the supposedly most powerful person in the whole of China, was still unable to escape the flow of time, floating helplessly as a piece of log.
Puyi threw away his love, his life and his humanity for one sole purpose: To search for his lost identity. He lived the first two decades of his life as an emperor (unofficially, as he was unaware of). When the truth of his powerlessness eventually broke in (fairly well hidden from him by the officials around him), he sought to stay as an emperor, and eventually, under the convincing of the Japanese, willingly gave in everything. He knew of nothing but to be an emperor, as his whole life hitherto was filled with this role. He had no skills, but an enormous ego, an ego that all emperors were taught to have and reasonably possessed and infinitely inflated. To him, this ego is everything, everything his life meant.
Today, we look at Puyi askance, wondering why he betrayed his people, questioning the true motives behind his actions. Yet, his life of frantic search for an identity poses a very profound challenge to what we mean by purpose; specifically, the purpose of life, the ultimate purpose. The meaning of life (certainly not 42) is complex, and no one would claim to have/be able to grasp it fully in his/her short life. This turns me to wonder if the search of meaning itself is the meaning itself, that when we realize the vastness of possibilities and uncertainty do we, ironically, begin our search and consolidate the meaning of life.
Here, identity plays an important role. To have an identity means to be realized as a part of a community, to play a role in the course of history, and perhaps to make a mark, because we know that only through this can we make ourselves permanent in memory of the future, that we can be remembered as what we want to be remembered as. Thus, I daresay that this makes us immortal to a certain extent. With immortality being one of the dreams of humanity, identity, defining the direction of human life, perhaps has become what we mean by life itself.
In this ever changing world, almost nothing stays constant, even if it is not always apparent as in Puyi's world. To become an identifiable person is more and more of a challenge in the age of dream-seeking, with fate forever diverting the expected course of life. Yet, can we still embrace this rapid and uncertain flow? Can we get hold of what we are currently, and live with acceptance but vision?
For me, forgetfulness comes to play.
Thursday, 2 April 2015
Colours
Even if the colours of the world that were sent through prisms fade
And everything is filled with this kind of grey
When it comes down to it, I can do it on my own
I'll show you that I can repaint them again in future
And everything is filled with this kind of grey
When it comes down to it, I can do it on my own
I'll show you that I can repaint them again in future
Slowly the room flooded with morning light, the sun sending down countless diverging rays, penetrating through the ever so slight gap between his curtains. Another day has arrived.
He lay, motionlessly, on his bed, blurring the line between unwillingness and inability. The blanket enveloped him like a cocoon, an unyielding cage of idling. Each minute passed by made the room brighter, gradually intruding his peace. A sickly white projection manifests on the wall, peering down on him with utmost judgment.
The concept of time no longer exists with in this isolated, airtight space. One hour is worth as much as one minute, or a day, or a lifetime. Motion is no longer possible, while his mind was paralyzed within the frame of time he exists within. The cocoon wraps around him, ever tighter, almost strangling him.
Perhaps in another room, there would be a person, man or woman, shaking off their cocoon, freeing themselves from the confinements of the present. They would walk up to their mirrors, and plan their day ahead of time. A day full of excitement from meeting others, to seeing new places, gaining new, however trivial, knowledge, and perhaps sometimes discuss politics and philosophy.
In another room, that would be him.
Deathly silence permeates this space of his mere existence. It speaks louder than any crowd, producing shockwaves no one can imitate or induce. In his mind no more can be heard, but random garbage and pseudo-intellectual ramblings. Something about the future, about how he can use his skills, to help the world, possibly. Some picture of him under a bright, azure sky, looking up, realizing that he is one of the colours in this spectrum known as the society, that he is one of the atoms that scattered the UV light, painting out this stunning sky.
How ironic, that the blue sky outside would project a ghostly pale image on his wall.
It is with this thought that he resumes his eternal slumber. I wish him a good night.
The concept of time no longer exists with in this isolated, airtight space. One hour is worth as much as one minute, or a day, or a lifetime. Motion is no longer possible, while his mind was paralyzed within the frame of time he exists within. The cocoon wraps around him, ever tighter, almost strangling him.
Perhaps in another room, there would be a person, man or woman, shaking off their cocoon, freeing themselves from the confinements of the present. They would walk up to their mirrors, and plan their day ahead of time. A day full of excitement from meeting others, to seeing new places, gaining new, however trivial, knowledge, and perhaps sometimes discuss politics and philosophy.
In another room, that would be him.
Deathly silence permeates this space of his mere existence. It speaks louder than any crowd, producing shockwaves no one can imitate or induce. In his mind no more can be heard, but random garbage and pseudo-intellectual ramblings. Something about the future, about how he can use his skills, to help the world, possibly. Some picture of him under a bright, azure sky, looking up, realizing that he is one of the colours in this spectrum known as the society, that he is one of the atoms that scattered the UV light, painting out this stunning sky.
How ironic, that the blue sky outside would project a ghostly pale image on his wall.
It is with this thought that he resumes his eternal slumber. I wish him a good night.
Tuesday, 17 March 2015
Irritations
1.
We are out of time!
Are these words even spoken? Are they real? These questions have bugged him for the whole journey. The only traces of her presence would be the faint smell of perfume, or perhaps the light bouncing off her slightly reflective complexion. He has lost sense of time since the beginning of the night, when he, decidedly, was not alone. As to why, he completely lost track of the reason, I am afraid.
Blending into the darkness was nothing but a long road of tarmac. Bleak, lifeless, but clear and distinct; distinctly repeating into infinity. They marched onward, blissfully unaware of any sense of future. After all, the night is long enough that anything in the future is not of worry.
We ran out of time!
Strange. He heard those words again. Under the sickly yellow streetlights he saw nothing but darkness in front of him. Or rather, under him I suppose. Not one car or even people was seen. A very peaceful night, save the distinctly repeating, perhaps immaterial voices.
Where was he? What was he doing? He would be glad if these questions were asked, instead of the frequent reminder of lateness. What was there to be late for anyway?
Immaterial as they were, the words stuck in his mind, which he wished he could discard for just this hour, this fine hour. He knew that after this hour there would be no walk, no light, no road, no bleakness... no perfume.
This was why he was here. This was. This was! This...
He ran out of time.
As the luminous fairy dust wore off from her, he, the shadow, gradually faded from her. Into nothingness, not even darkness.
2.
I have not finished this anime yet, but Welcome to the NHK is definitely an interesting one to say the least. I would not say it is excellent in terms of anything, and in some sense it is kind of lackluster compared to the legendary ones such as Steins;gate etc. It doesn't build up enough tension for me to care too much about it. Yet, I am writing about this here, mainly because of how much it manages to resonate with reality.
The lack of tension quite perfectly depicts how dull and dry a hikkikomori's life is. The use of wild and fantastical elements accurately portrays what illusions a hikky would have to this real world. It touches on a wide variety of issues, such as the problems of lack of social/vocational skills, how the society views and treats hikkies, depression, suicide etc. Yet, all these scenes end quite anti-climatically. In my humble opinion, this is what makes this show so interesting. The life of hikkies, almost by definition, is anti-climatic, boring, meaningless, and full of hatred and disdain.
Makes me think that were I to be in this parallel universe where I am less competent with math and science, I would be in a strikingly similar situation as Satou. However, of course, there is no such person as Misaki in the real world.
3.
Pretty obviously, I have added some music on the blog.
Yea, that happened. The title and origin of the music is labelled on the top left corner. Might add more to the playlist if I want to in the future.
Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the shadow
We are out of time!
Are these words even spoken? Are they real? These questions have bugged him for the whole journey. The only traces of her presence would be the faint smell of perfume, or perhaps the light bouncing off her slightly reflective complexion. He has lost sense of time since the beginning of the night, when he, decidedly, was not alone. As to why, he completely lost track of the reason, I am afraid.
Blending into the darkness was nothing but a long road of tarmac. Bleak, lifeless, but clear and distinct; distinctly repeating into infinity. They marched onward, blissfully unaware of any sense of future. After all, the night is long enough that anything in the future is not of worry.
We ran out of time!
Strange. He heard those words again. Under the sickly yellow streetlights he saw nothing but darkness in front of him. Or rather, under him I suppose. Not one car or even people was seen. A very peaceful night, save the distinctly repeating, perhaps immaterial voices.
Where was he? What was he doing? He would be glad if these questions were asked, instead of the frequent reminder of lateness. What was there to be late for anyway?
Immaterial as they were, the words stuck in his mind, which he wished he could discard for just this hour, this fine hour. He knew that after this hour there would be no walk, no light, no road, no bleakness... no perfume.
This was why he was here. This was. This was! This...
He ran out of time.
As the luminous fairy dust wore off from her, he, the shadow, gradually faded from her. Into nothingness, not even darkness.
2.
I have not finished this anime yet, but Welcome to the NHK is definitely an interesting one to say the least. I would not say it is excellent in terms of anything, and in some sense it is kind of lackluster compared to the legendary ones such as Steins;gate etc. It doesn't build up enough tension for me to care too much about it. Yet, I am writing about this here, mainly because of how much it manages to resonate with reality.
The lack of tension quite perfectly depicts how dull and dry a hikkikomori's life is. The use of wild and fantastical elements accurately portrays what illusions a hikky would have to this real world. It touches on a wide variety of issues, such as the problems of lack of social/vocational skills, how the society views and treats hikkies, depression, suicide etc. Yet, all these scenes end quite anti-climatically. In my humble opinion, this is what makes this show so interesting. The life of hikkies, almost by definition, is anti-climatic, boring, meaningless, and full of hatred and disdain.
Makes me think that were I to be in this parallel universe where I am less competent with math and science, I would be in a strikingly similar situation as Satou. However, of course, there is no such person as Misaki in the real world.
3.
Pretty obviously, I have added some music on the blog.
Yea, that happened. The title and origin of the music is labelled on the top left corner. Might add more to the playlist if I want to in the future.
Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the shadow
Thursday, 12 March 2015
We all bow
"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.
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.
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.
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