Post by Akiyama Sukoto on Dec 15, 2014 19:57:38 GMT -6
Date: June 15, 2003
Time: 9:00 P.M.
When darkness captured every crevasse of Hikarizaka, Akiyama Sukoto was still shuffling sluggishly through out the small city. For him, it had been quite a long day, one followed by many different art pieces. They had all been meticulously crafted, the artists showing an acuity of art itself. It was this that controlled him that night, that made him still coherent at a time he'd be at home, envy, envy it was this that brought out thoughts, which in turn brought out him.
He was confused, more so than usual. He had been thinking, perhaps too much, on things that needed no though. These were the things that destroyed you, and he had none, and it was on that for which he was thinking. They ventured into the night, still, still, more stagnant than time, and he was but a follower of them. Soon, before he'd known, he was sitting on a park bench, his knees uncharacteristically tucked up to his chest. For it was cold that night, frigid at the very grace of the night's air, but he had no care of this. It was only human instinct that desired to keep any warmth. And, as he found himself like this, he was reminded of something.
For it is only you who can drag yourself further into the far reaches of oblivion.
And he was weak that night, weak, so so very weak, and he knew it too. Somewhere he did know it, but he did not care. He did not want to care, because he knew caring would only make the situation worse. But he did not know it here, because all he knew here was that he was alone, and alone he was weakest.
Only you can drag yourself further... No...
And in his state, ideas roamed freely. Not because he let them, he did not want to let them, but without thought, he would only be further destroyed. He knew this, he knew it, and he did know it here, but he did not want to know it. But he did, and without that thought, the thought that made his brain function, that made it him, he would not know anything. In fact he didn't know anything, but he didn't know it. He refused to know it.
Pits of oblivion...I won't...I can't...
He took his hands and placed them on his head, and he shivered, he shivered because he was cracking, he was breaking. No, he was broken, he had been broken, for too long, but he had hidden it so that he could not see, so that none could see. For if he couldn't handle it, how could others? So, when he now gazed into the mirror, he did not recognize the one who gazed back, he would not recognize who gazed back, because it wasn't him. It was never him, and it would never be him. He did not want it to be him. If it was him, he would be too weak for the world, too weak for himself.
You can only drag yourself...But...what if I am not myself? Who drags me? Why...How? Too many...too many questions, no answers. Nervous, truly nervous, but not. Merging, turning...I cannot drag myself, I can only drag others. I cannot drag myself. I cannot! For there is no me, because I am not me!
He was cradling himself, rocking back and forth on the worn wood. Thoughts ran through his mind at a brake neck pace. They were bullets, each shot through his mind. Killing him, but he could not be killed, not by these thoughts. Still, he was killed, but not killed. Killed, but not killed. Killed, but not killed!
For, when you are the nothing that drags you, how can you be the one cast further into the darkness! I am not! Because I am cast further into the light, and it is blinding! It weakens me more than the dark, but only because it makes me pure! It humbles me, it makes me know that I am nothing, I am the nothing that I should fear, because only nothing is the thing that should be truly feared!
And he saw. He saw, but he could not believe, he could not know, for knowing what he saw, in those dreams of reality, in the dreams of other realities, ones hidden by the eye so that one may not see, for it would warrant only wisdom and madness. And a combination of the two? Dangerous beyond belief, for a wise madman is the one who knows everything, but also knows nothing at all. He has the power to destroy, but only the ability to create. And Atsumori was this, in these hours, and he did see. He had always seen, and he would always see, those things, those....those unspeakable things.....those other worlds. He had seen, and he would always see. He would see himself, and he would see others. The other possibilities of life, the possibilities of change, and it made him wise and mad. No! He had always been wise and mad, it was his definition. For his mind could. It could not handle sight, and when he saw, he forgot. And when he forgot, he became him, but not! He became the him who was fragile, him who was but a child! The him who had seen was truly him, but hidden, only to be brought out in his craze of madness when he saw. But then, after defending, he would retreat once more, into his mind. And he knew, he knew! of these 'other worlds' for he had seen them. He had lived them! But he did not know, and he hoped he would never know, because he, who was a child, could never bear it, and would only become as mad as him.
And he was tired, far more than rest could help. Only thought could help him, and only thought could hurt him, at least, now. He was sure, as he kept cradling himself with hands on his head, that he would not remember this. He did not remember this, for forgetting it was the only thing his mind could do. Without doing it, he would be nothing, the thing that he feared most. And, when he thought this, he didn't remember, he never remembered. It was only a state of had not, no answer, because there was no question. But, as he finally made his way home from the park, wondering why he'd fallen asleep on the park bench, he though he hear a whisper. His head immediately snapped toward it, not enough. He was getting rusty, the him from a year ago would've lurched into a defensive position. Perhaps he should've gotten back into the arts, however he could. Still, after the disturbance, he made his way home.
But there was a whisper, a whisper of only a thought, and it had said...
You fear yourself, because you are nothing. And nothing, you in which you fear, can do more to one than the most horrific thing imaginable. It can make them nothing too.
He was confused, more so than usual. He had been thinking, perhaps too much, on things that needed no though. These were the things that destroyed you, and he had none, and it was on that for which he was thinking. They ventured into the night, still, still, more stagnant than time, and he was but a follower of them. Soon, before he'd known, he was sitting on a park bench, his knees uncharacteristically tucked up to his chest. For it was cold that night, frigid at the very grace of the night's air, but he had no care of this. It was only human instinct that desired to keep any warmth. And, as he found himself like this, he was reminded of something.
For it is only you who can drag yourself further into the far reaches of oblivion.
And he was weak that night, weak, so so very weak, and he knew it too. Somewhere he did know it, but he did not care. He did not want to care, because he knew caring would only make the situation worse. But he did not know it here, because all he knew here was that he was alone, and alone he was weakest.
Only you can drag yourself further... No...
And in his state, ideas roamed freely. Not because he let them, he did not want to let them, but without thought, he would only be further destroyed. He knew this, he knew it, and he did know it here, but he did not want to know it. But he did, and without that thought, the thought that made his brain function, that made it him, he would not know anything. In fact he didn't know anything, but he didn't know it. He refused to know it.
Pits of oblivion...I won't...I can't...
He took his hands and placed them on his head, and he shivered, he shivered because he was cracking, he was breaking. No, he was broken, he had been broken, for too long, but he had hidden it so that he could not see, so that none could see. For if he couldn't handle it, how could others? So, when he now gazed into the mirror, he did not recognize the one who gazed back, he would not recognize who gazed back, because it wasn't him. It was never him, and it would never be him. He did not want it to be him. If it was him, he would be too weak for the world, too weak for himself.
You can only drag yourself...But...what if I am not myself? Who drags me? Why...How? Too many...too many questions, no answers. Nervous, truly nervous, but not. Merging, turning...I cannot drag myself, I can only drag others. I cannot drag myself. I cannot! For there is no me, because I am not me!
He was cradling himself, rocking back and forth on the worn wood. Thoughts ran through his mind at a brake neck pace. They were bullets, each shot through his mind. Killing him, but he could not be killed, not by these thoughts. Still, he was killed, but not killed. Killed, but not killed. Killed, but not killed!
For, when you are the nothing that drags you, how can you be the one cast further into the darkness! I am not! Because I am cast further into the light, and it is blinding! It weakens me more than the dark, but only because it makes me pure! It humbles me, it makes me know that I am nothing, I am the nothing that I should fear, because only nothing is the thing that should be truly feared!
And he saw. He saw, but he could not believe, he could not know, for knowing what he saw, in those dreams of reality, in the dreams of other realities, ones hidden by the eye so that one may not see, for it would warrant only wisdom and madness. And a combination of the two? Dangerous beyond belief, for a wise madman is the one who knows everything, but also knows nothing at all. He has the power to destroy, but only the ability to create. And Atsumori was this, in these hours, and he did see. He had always seen, and he would always see, those things, those....those unspeakable things.....those other worlds. He had seen, and he would always see. He would see himself, and he would see others. The other possibilities of life, the possibilities of change, and it made him wise and mad. No! He had always been wise and mad, it was his definition. For his mind could. It could not handle sight, and when he saw, he forgot. And when he forgot, he became him, but not! He became the him who was fragile, him who was but a child! The him who had seen was truly him, but hidden, only to be brought out in his craze of madness when he saw. But then, after defending, he would retreat once more, into his mind. And he knew, he knew! of these 'other worlds' for he had seen them. He had lived them! But he did not know, and he hoped he would never know, because he, who was a child, could never bear it, and would only become as mad as him.
And he was tired, far more than rest could help. Only thought could help him, and only thought could hurt him, at least, now. He was sure, as he kept cradling himself with hands on his head, that he would not remember this. He did not remember this, for forgetting it was the only thing his mind could do. Without doing it, he would be nothing, the thing that he feared most. And, when he thought this, he didn't remember, he never remembered. It was only a state of had not, no answer, because there was no question. But, as he finally made his way home from the park, wondering why he'd fallen asleep on the park bench, he though he hear a whisper. His head immediately snapped toward it, not enough. He was getting rusty, the him from a year ago would've lurched into a defensive position. Perhaps he should've gotten back into the arts, however he could. Still, after the disturbance, he made his way home.
But there was a whisper, a whisper of only a thought, and it had said...
You fear yourself, because you are nothing. And nothing, you in which you fear, can do more to one than the most horrific thing imaginable. It can make them nothing too.