[vitesse]
by qem_chibati
Ghost of a ghost
Sometimes it feels like there's a ghost sitting behind you. A ghost that's quietly supportive if sometimes slightly judgmental, buzzing with impatient annoyance. That someone is holding their breath as you make each move, trying to withhold a coughing fit when you do something... stupid. Resting the urge to cheer when your trap has been successfully set.
A ghost that ignores the pretty girls you smile at, yet sometimes bounds excitedly over old men. It feels like sometimes your surrounded by a whirlwind of positive energy - or that sullen teenager forced to sit in on a meeting.
But if you turn around, there's no one there. Not even the breeze, that you felt twisting in your hair just moments ago.
But sometimes you wonder, sometimes you wonder why particular photographs look familiar of old insei years, of old team tournaments, of older players honored in the halls of Go. Sometimes you wonder why streaked hair makes you smile, even if you personally prefer flowing long hair, a deep, true and rich black. Sometimes you wonder why your eyes glint purple in the mirror.
And sometimes you don't. After all as a Fujiwara, you have quite the family legacy to uphold, no need for whimsical fantasies of ghosts.
Ghost of a ghost
Sometimes it feels like there's a ghost sitting behind you. A ghost that's quietly supportive if sometimes slightly judgmental, buzzing with impatient annoyance. That someone is holding their breath as you make each move, trying to withhold a coughing fit when you do something... stupid. Resting the urge to cheer when your trap has been successfully set.
A ghost that ignores the pretty girls you smile at, yet sometimes bounds excitedly over old men. It feels like sometimes your surrounded by a whirlwind of positive energy - or that sullen teenager forced to sit in on a meeting.
But if you turn around, there's no one there. Not even the breeze, that you felt twisting in your hair just moments ago.
But sometimes you wonder, sometimes you wonder why particular photographs look familiar of old insei years, of old team tournaments, of older players honored in the halls of Go. Sometimes you wonder why streaked hair makes you smile, even if you personally prefer flowing long hair, a deep, true and rich black. Sometimes you wonder why your eyes glint purple in the mirror.
And sometimes you don't. After all as a Fujiwara, you have quite the family legacy to uphold, no need for whimsical fantasies of ghosts.