Urei.
I'm giving up on trying to think of a new story idea. It's just
not happening and the only thing I've succeeded in doing so far is
depressing myself into a silent funk. I don't know if I've said
more than three sentences since Thursday, to be honest. Does it
sound bad to say that it takes too much effort? I really wanted
to finish Spoken Silence or any manuscript for that matter by the end
of this year, but I'm really quite discouraged. A shame, too
since I was riding pretty high because of my work over the
summer. Of course, it in turn throws me into a whole debate about
why the hell do I think I'll even be able to get an MFA in writing if I
can't even get a book published before I'm out of college? I'll
have had twenty-two years of experience and nothing to show for it.
I feel like a lot of things are in doubt in my life. I've been delaying contacting my advisor because I'm torn on the issue of study abroad. Part of the agreement for me staying in this country for undergraduate school was that I could study abroad for a year. Well, that and the fact my father was so angry with me at the time that he wrote it into the will that if I didn't graduate from an accredited US institution, I would not receive any inheritance. Nice touch, that part. It's no wonder I crashed my car that year; it was the consolation prize. That aside, I was always set on London. I always felt like I left a part of me there ever since I had to leave. And yet, for the last two years, I haven't had that same passion to return. I really want to go to Japan, though. But my Japanese is so spotty and I'd end up in beginner's classes when I'd much rather be at least intermediate. I can't read kanji, although I tend to absorb their meanings well before I can write them. I'm scared to commit, though, to staying for such a long time without at least a passing knowledge. Two days in France was a bad enough experience to make me realise that not knowing the language is a hazard.
Plus there's the financial end of it. I assumed that it wasn't an option, but my father started bringing it up, especially during the latter part of the summer. I got excited enough about it to do enough research to realise that NYU has jackshit in the writing and Asian studies programs abroad. London is all Stern and Pre-Med. The only program to Japan is an exchange one, which is fine. But, I got too hung up on costs because those are two of the most expensive places to go and when my father had been out of work as long as he had, I know that it's a strain. And even though they told me not to worry about the money, I did and still do. Especially when in recent times it comes in the backhanded, "Find out money so I can figure out how in the hell I'm going to be able to afford to pay for it." How can I not feel guilty? I'm so used to quelling my desires on behalf of others that I'm doing it even when told not to. I know a year isn't realistic anymore. Even though I have so little tying me here to this place now, I still know a year is a long time. Do I settle for a summer since it's shorter, thereby less expensive? Or do I put it aside and do what I know deep down I want to do? Be selfish, say, "I want this." But what is it that I even want?
I always said you don't need a degree to write, but that's what I'm persuing, isn't it? Because art history, while I know more about it than teachers at points, I can't learn the languages so I gave it up and didn't even fight it. Italian, French, and German. When I was younger, I really wanted to learn Latin and French. And when I was in sixth grade in Greensboro, I got a chance to take a class that taught Spanish, French, and Latin. Spanish was okay enough, I thought and I excelled at it, had some of the best grades in the class. And when it came to French, I was enthusiastic, but there was a word, which I try to recall as I sit here and fail except remembering it started with an 'e', I couldn't say. She made me stand up and forced me to try it over and over again, which was a huge blow to my pride, my perfectionism. It's what catches me on languages other than my own. I'm such a perfectionist, I want it to be right, to be good, because words are precious to me. It's why I'm much better at writing other languages than speaking them. Because I lack the confidence in knowing that I'm right, therefore I falter. And after making me say it so many times, she finally told me I was a disgrace to the French language and that I should never insult it by trying to learn it. In front of the class, which is extra special. I moved before we got to Latin. I took Spanish and did okay for the first two years, but when I got a new teacher in my third year, she only passed me because she, "Didn't want me to ever go through the pain and embaressment of Spanish again." And when I took Latin in high school, I just didn't care anymore, because conjugating was too damn much, and there were pretty boys to distract me with, and we can't forget the mutual appreciation Naro-san and I had of the sexy puer in piscina mensa. I am terrible at Romance languages, it seems. And I never wanted to learn German, not even when I was dating one. No one ever believes me when I say Japanese is so much easier than Spanish for me, but such as it is.
I don't need a degree to write a novel and I don't need a degree to go to a museum and know what I'm looking at. And even if, let's go with the miraculous here, I managed to become fluent in Japanese and got a degree in the field, what would I do with it? Become a translator? Work as a curator in the Japanese gallery? I don't know what I want. I know that I'm good at writing, at art history, and history in general, really. And Japanese history holds a particular interest for me, especially the Tokugawa and Edo periods. Heian a bit, but that's probably only because I'm studying it right now. I don't know what I want from this university, from my degree, hell even from life. I don't know what I want to do or how to go about to make it happen. I have no real desires or ambitions. I never really have. Anytime I thought about wanting something, I always stopped myself, saying don't be so foolish as to believe that it'll work out that way, sometimes no matter how much you want it to happen, it may never be. What's the use in wanting to be a famous author if I can't even finish one single fucking manuscript? That I can't even formulate an idea when I need it? I am unreliable, I lack discipline and direction. The future is so unstable that I always found it idiotic to plan ahead for it; I would rather not deal with the disappointment. And so I sit here in a city I never really wanted to be in and doing nothing that I really want to do.
When I was a child, that blonde optimistic purity, it was instilled in me that I would go to college and I aspired to Princeton. Then I actually moved there and was promptly disgusted. I hated the town, I hated the people; everything was too quiet and too pretentious. I wouldn't want to go there, even if it was paid for in full by them. My dad taught at Cornell from time to time and as a result, I didn't even consider it. After going to Vassar, my mother was set on me going to school there, and it was somewhere I had no desire to return to. My father suggested Brown, but I told him that I wasn't qualified. All I wanted was London and I was foolish enough to hold onto it, to think it would happen. They told me I could apply, but for every British school I applied for, I had to do an American one as well, which I accepted. And when I had filled out the application for British schools (because it's all on one and it was just easier than the various American ones), I was told no by my parents. I wasn't allowed to even apply and that was when I found out about the alterations to the will. And with everything going on inside of me, I just stopped. I stopped caring, stopped wanting, stopped thinking about it completely. There was nowhere in this country I wanted to be. I never cared for California, I hated Florida, I had no desire to be anywhere in the South, and the entire middle of this country was never even up for consideration. There was not a single school that I wanted to go to or could even picture going to. I resisted filling out applications, writing the essays, finding information out about other schools. It just didn't matter to me anymore.
Carcrash happened, grandfather died, I turned eighteen. I was commanded to act like the adult I had just become and write the essays. I put in the most half-assed effort, not even looking at the screen but staring out the window the whole time, not meaning anything that I put down on the page. When we got back home, there was a blow out and my father actually left the house. I didn't want him to come back. My mother locked me in the office and I went on auto-pilot and got it done. I applied to Rutgers because it may as well have been MHS, I applied to Vassar because I was told not doing it wasn't an option, and I applied to NYU to see what a rejection letter looked like. I think I may have done NYU because M suggested it wouldn't hurt, now that I think about it. And much to my pleasure, Vassar actually rejected me, despite having been told by my interviewer that I was all but accepted. It's how I ended up at this school, in this city. And fights about how it wasn't London ensued. "It's a city," they say and I won't contest it. But it's not the one I wanted to be in, I never, not even when I was younger, even gave a thought or a damn about this place. I never had dreams about the Big Apple, Broadway was just a street, and Times Square was a tourist trap. I'm glad that I'm not at Vassar, because I think I actually would have been driven to insanity. I do better in cities, it is obvious, but this place has never inspired me like it has for so many others. It's just a mass of concrete and bodies. I do not feel particularly close or fond of it. While I feel grateful for the oppurtunity to be here, I do not particularly care for this place. I know that it is better than my alternatives that were offered.
I don't know where I want to end up geographically, I don't know what I want to do career-wise, and I have no idea who the hell I want to be. Sometimes I don't even want to be a writer. I wasn't meant to be one, no matter what they say. It was a gift given to me and I feel bad if I don't put it to use from time to time. And I wonder why it won't work for me? Ha. I can't even remember the last time I was inspired by something. The last thing that truly, deeply moved me was when I stood before a van Gogh painting in Philly and I was so overwhelmed that even the mere thought, the mere mention of it is enough to stir it inside of me again. I was talking to Lily about it sometime in the past few weeks and I was fighting really hard not to get sucked back into it, still trying to figure out why those aggitated brushstrokes brings more out of me than a place like New York City. Even though time has passed, just lingering on the memory long enough to type it is enough to bring back that instant pain of understanding, the acute feeling that makes it so hard to breathe and leads to a desperate desire to steal it away, so that no one else can dishonour it with their ignorant misunderstanding. They say it's so beautiful, oh and look at those wonderful colours, ah what pretty flowers, and no, no! it's not about that at all, why can't you see that these colours are muted, that this blue is of pain, that this yellow is trying so hard to be happy, but failing miserably as it is tainted with greens and that ever present blue that makes them droop, that no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't get it right, that half of the canvas is missing impasto, that there is a fury in them that slowly fades into defeat, that he can't even give it his name because he knows he isn't worthy to claim it, not because he hated it and didn't think that it wasn't worthy of him, that he abandonded it because he knew he could do it justice, so why bother? He would hate that it was praised as a masterpiece because it was a failure, why can't they see the suffering in those lines, those colours, why does no one else understand, I feel as if I am the only person who has ever wept over that canvas besides him.
...seriously, that's the danger I talked about before, when I let myself feel it just floods and I am actually shaking, everything else completely forgotten as I remember how everything else fell away. And I wonder why I waver on when to go to the van Gogh drawing exhibit? I fear my reaction, fear the complete and total breakdown as I see the emotions laid bare on paper and canvas and feel them as deeply as if they were my own. I seriously wonder why me, why him, and if it's all in my head, or if there's something in the past I don't know about.
But, I have to leave him aside because otherwise I will never sleep. So do I stay here? Do I go to London or Japan for study abroad? Do I do it for a semester, a year, a summer? I just don't know. I want to discuss it with my father, but I don't. I don't know if I can actually look him in the eye and do it. Why? Is it because I feel like such a horrible, pathetic excuse for a daughter, who despite knowing how horrible finances are, even though he's bringing in money now, I still think this is okay? What right do I have to want such a thing for myself? And why in the hell am I falling back into that goddamn pattern of self-sacrifice?! What use is talking about it when I don't even know what I want to accomplish with a conversation?
I watched Mirage of Blaze in an attempt to figure out something, to see if it made me feel anything. Because Last Life in the Universe just seemed a touch too dangerous in this mindstate. The link here, is that the events that take place are mostly based in the area where NYU transfers students in Japan, so it connects, I swear. But I watched it in its entirety, both series and OVAs. I don't even know what I was really looking for, I've just really been thinking about Naoe, trying to figure out why I associate so much of myself in him that I go so far as to refer to that one part of myself with his name. I never realised how much of Takaya I had in me as well. "If I become Kagetora completly, will I have the right to think of him then?" he asks at the end of the vary last episode, still fearing that he is merely a substitute of Kagetora for Naoe. 400 years of fucked up history that this poor kid is fighting against. I start feeling myself fall apart around the same time he does, when he feels so betrayed and confused by Naoe, but he still holds onto the cigarettes, lighting them one by one as if incense lit in memory. And when some punk kicks the pack, he starts a fight, then allows himself to get the shit beat out of him and as his brother picks him up, asking, "Did you hold back out of kindness or because you wanted to be beaten?" while even unconscious, Takaya still holds onto the cigarettes. It's a way to keep him near without the pain of his presence. And when he wakes up, his words just come out in a flood, saying that he always was alone and that he allowed himself to get accustomed to Naoe's kindness, that he wanted to stay there forever and was afraid of being abandoned, that he wasn't sure if Naoe was there because of him or Kagetora, and he just looses it, collapsing in tears. The first time I watched it, I found it hard to breathe and almost cried. This time I found it so hard to watch because I felt it so completely, that I went far beyond thinking about breathing and tears. He can't figure out where he stands, and even though he wants Naoe close, when it happens and that line is blurred, he is terrified, but I don't think so much because of what happened, but because he wasn't sure if Naoe was doing it because of him or Kagetora.
But I just find so much more in Naoe. He is a man driven by demons of the past, wanting to break away from his feelings and can't, even when given the choice. Because no matter how much he says he hates Kagetora for everything that's been done, it's not about that. He stays because he doesn't know what else to do, Kagetora is just so engrained in him, it is literally the whole reason for his existence. To protect, even at the cost of his own life. Self-sacrifice for the one you love, even if they don't want it or care. There is respect for each other as vassal and subject, but there is also that deep-seeded resentment. Nothing worked out the way it was supposed to and nothing seems to change, even if one wants it to. And even though Naoe wants to leave at times, to just walk away, all it takes is a few words and he stays, because there is no other option. Even if it hurts, no matter how deeply, to stay by his side, Naoe does because it is the only place where he has a purpose, has a reason, has any small chance of happiness. He allows himself to be chained and for Kagetora to be the one holding them; no other is worthy of such dominance. And the one time he rebelled, when he allowed himself to act as he wished in order to make the madness stop, he regretted it and it changed everything to come. Despite it, they need each other, all of the pain is only proof of the deeper emotions beneath.
It makes me want to read the forty some odd novels that go along with the series, but my Japanese may never be that good, if it ever becomes as such the books will most likely be impossible to find, and there is very little hope that they'll ever be translated and brought stateside. There is just so much there, so much more that I want to know. It's almost as if by them finding an answer, I feel as if I will as well. But Naoe, for me, is that masochistic side that gives into the darker emotions the tie me to the one I cannot break away from, but the one that knows how to put on a calm, collected front of confidence. Because as much power as he holds over me, I, at a time, held power over him as well. We inflicted our fair share of wounds upon each other, some of which will never heal. It is only with the Buddhist class that I allow myself the possibility to question if maybe this is like then. That for centuries we have been in cycles such as this, with another to make sure we don't destory ourselves completely. But I shall remind myself now to never watch this series when in a mood like this because it leads to thoughts like the above. I found little comfort, because knowing you're not alone from an anime is really quite pathetic, especially when it is coming from someone as complexly fucked up as Naoe. But I still find it to be an accurate label of that side of me. It is Naoe and no one else, and because of the ties, it is why I feel that the writer inside is Naoe as well. It's just rooted in so much painful history, but I know I will never break free, because I know that I never will truly desire that kind of freedom. I define myself through that particular pain and to seperate myself from it would be impossible.
And, because this can't be all doom and gloom, an amusing page from a manga that I read the other day. It's the only time the girls appear, but it makes me laugh all the same. I'm just glad I don't have class tomorrow. I don't think I could handle questioning my existence on top of all this other bullshit. But some answers would be nice, but all things in their time, I guess. I should probably try and get some more sleep. 8AM to 4.30PM is really not a schedule I should become accustomed to, methinks. And considering that it is forcasted to rain everyday until Tuesday next week, I should really be mindful. Weather like this lets me slip away into those deeper parts of my mind, and since I only have class on Tuesday and Thursday this week, I should be cautious. But it is nice having a roof right next to my window, because for the first time since living in the city, I can regularly hear rain instead of that one storm a year. It is enough to bring a smile to my face. Well, that and I get to break out the Doc's. Maybe I'll buy a pair of shoes this next weekend. Sexy shoes to make me feel a bit better, I think are in order.
I feel like a lot of things are in doubt in my life. I've been delaying contacting my advisor because I'm torn on the issue of study abroad. Part of the agreement for me staying in this country for undergraduate school was that I could study abroad for a year. Well, that and the fact my father was so angry with me at the time that he wrote it into the will that if I didn't graduate from an accredited US institution, I would not receive any inheritance. Nice touch, that part. It's no wonder I crashed my car that year; it was the consolation prize. That aside, I was always set on London. I always felt like I left a part of me there ever since I had to leave. And yet, for the last two years, I haven't had that same passion to return. I really want to go to Japan, though. But my Japanese is so spotty and I'd end up in beginner's classes when I'd much rather be at least intermediate. I can't read kanji, although I tend to absorb their meanings well before I can write them. I'm scared to commit, though, to staying for such a long time without at least a passing knowledge. Two days in France was a bad enough experience to make me realise that not knowing the language is a hazard.
Plus there's the financial end of it. I assumed that it wasn't an option, but my father started bringing it up, especially during the latter part of the summer. I got excited enough about it to do enough research to realise that NYU has jackshit in the writing and Asian studies programs abroad. London is all Stern and Pre-Med. The only program to Japan is an exchange one, which is fine. But, I got too hung up on costs because those are two of the most expensive places to go and when my father had been out of work as long as he had, I know that it's a strain. And even though they told me not to worry about the money, I did and still do. Especially when in recent times it comes in the backhanded, "Find out money so I can figure out how in the hell I'm going to be able to afford to pay for it." How can I not feel guilty? I'm so used to quelling my desires on behalf of others that I'm doing it even when told not to. I know a year isn't realistic anymore. Even though I have so little tying me here to this place now, I still know a year is a long time. Do I settle for a summer since it's shorter, thereby less expensive? Or do I put it aside and do what I know deep down I want to do? Be selfish, say, "I want this." But what is it that I even want?
I always said you don't need a degree to write, but that's what I'm persuing, isn't it? Because art history, while I know more about it than teachers at points, I can't learn the languages so I gave it up and didn't even fight it. Italian, French, and German. When I was younger, I really wanted to learn Latin and French. And when I was in sixth grade in Greensboro, I got a chance to take a class that taught Spanish, French, and Latin. Spanish was okay enough, I thought and I excelled at it, had some of the best grades in the class. And when it came to French, I was enthusiastic, but there was a word, which I try to recall as I sit here and fail except remembering it started with an 'e', I couldn't say. She made me stand up and forced me to try it over and over again, which was a huge blow to my pride, my perfectionism. It's what catches me on languages other than my own. I'm such a perfectionist, I want it to be right, to be good, because words are precious to me. It's why I'm much better at writing other languages than speaking them. Because I lack the confidence in knowing that I'm right, therefore I falter. And after making me say it so many times, she finally told me I was a disgrace to the French language and that I should never insult it by trying to learn it. In front of the class, which is extra special. I moved before we got to Latin. I took Spanish and did okay for the first two years, but when I got a new teacher in my third year, she only passed me because she, "Didn't want me to ever go through the pain and embaressment of Spanish again." And when I took Latin in high school, I just didn't care anymore, because conjugating was too damn much, and there were pretty boys to distract me with, and we can't forget the mutual appreciation Naro-san and I had of the sexy puer in piscina mensa. I am terrible at Romance languages, it seems. And I never wanted to learn German, not even when I was dating one. No one ever believes me when I say Japanese is so much easier than Spanish for me, but such as it is.
I don't need a degree to write a novel and I don't need a degree to go to a museum and know what I'm looking at. And even if, let's go with the miraculous here, I managed to become fluent in Japanese and got a degree in the field, what would I do with it? Become a translator? Work as a curator in the Japanese gallery? I don't know what I want. I know that I'm good at writing, at art history, and history in general, really. And Japanese history holds a particular interest for me, especially the Tokugawa and Edo periods. Heian a bit, but that's probably only because I'm studying it right now. I don't know what I want from this university, from my degree, hell even from life. I don't know what I want to do or how to go about to make it happen. I have no real desires or ambitions. I never really have. Anytime I thought about wanting something, I always stopped myself, saying don't be so foolish as to believe that it'll work out that way, sometimes no matter how much you want it to happen, it may never be. What's the use in wanting to be a famous author if I can't even finish one single fucking manuscript? That I can't even formulate an idea when I need it? I am unreliable, I lack discipline and direction. The future is so unstable that I always found it idiotic to plan ahead for it; I would rather not deal with the disappointment. And so I sit here in a city I never really wanted to be in and doing nothing that I really want to do.
When I was a child, that blonde optimistic purity, it was instilled in me that I would go to college and I aspired to Princeton. Then I actually moved there and was promptly disgusted. I hated the town, I hated the people; everything was too quiet and too pretentious. I wouldn't want to go there, even if it was paid for in full by them. My dad taught at Cornell from time to time and as a result, I didn't even consider it. After going to Vassar, my mother was set on me going to school there, and it was somewhere I had no desire to return to. My father suggested Brown, but I told him that I wasn't qualified. All I wanted was London and I was foolish enough to hold onto it, to think it would happen. They told me I could apply, but for every British school I applied for, I had to do an American one as well, which I accepted. And when I had filled out the application for British schools (because it's all on one and it was just easier than the various American ones), I was told no by my parents. I wasn't allowed to even apply and that was when I found out about the alterations to the will. And with everything going on inside of me, I just stopped. I stopped caring, stopped wanting, stopped thinking about it completely. There was nowhere in this country I wanted to be. I never cared for California, I hated Florida, I had no desire to be anywhere in the South, and the entire middle of this country was never even up for consideration. There was not a single school that I wanted to go to or could even picture going to. I resisted filling out applications, writing the essays, finding information out about other schools. It just didn't matter to me anymore.
Carcrash happened, grandfather died, I turned eighteen. I was commanded to act like the adult I had just become and write the essays. I put in the most half-assed effort, not even looking at the screen but staring out the window the whole time, not meaning anything that I put down on the page. When we got back home, there was a blow out and my father actually left the house. I didn't want him to come back. My mother locked me in the office and I went on auto-pilot and got it done. I applied to Rutgers because it may as well have been MHS, I applied to Vassar because I was told not doing it wasn't an option, and I applied to NYU to see what a rejection letter looked like. I think I may have done NYU because M suggested it wouldn't hurt, now that I think about it. And much to my pleasure, Vassar actually rejected me, despite having been told by my interviewer that I was all but accepted. It's how I ended up at this school, in this city. And fights about how it wasn't London ensued. "It's a city," they say and I won't contest it. But it's not the one I wanted to be in, I never, not even when I was younger, even gave a thought or a damn about this place. I never had dreams about the Big Apple, Broadway was just a street, and Times Square was a tourist trap. I'm glad that I'm not at Vassar, because I think I actually would have been driven to insanity. I do better in cities, it is obvious, but this place has never inspired me like it has for so many others. It's just a mass of concrete and bodies. I do not feel particularly close or fond of it. While I feel grateful for the oppurtunity to be here, I do not particularly care for this place. I know that it is better than my alternatives that were offered.
I don't know where I want to end up geographically, I don't know what I want to do career-wise, and I have no idea who the hell I want to be. Sometimes I don't even want to be a writer. I wasn't meant to be one, no matter what they say. It was a gift given to me and I feel bad if I don't put it to use from time to time. And I wonder why it won't work for me? Ha. I can't even remember the last time I was inspired by something. The last thing that truly, deeply moved me was when I stood before a van Gogh painting in Philly and I was so overwhelmed that even the mere thought, the mere mention of it is enough to stir it inside of me again. I was talking to Lily about it sometime in the past few weeks and I was fighting really hard not to get sucked back into it, still trying to figure out why those aggitated brushstrokes brings more out of me than a place like New York City. Even though time has passed, just lingering on the memory long enough to type it is enough to bring back that instant pain of understanding, the acute feeling that makes it so hard to breathe and leads to a desperate desire to steal it away, so that no one else can dishonour it with their ignorant misunderstanding. They say it's so beautiful, oh and look at those wonderful colours, ah what pretty flowers, and no, no! it's not about that at all, why can't you see that these colours are muted, that this blue is of pain, that this yellow is trying so hard to be happy, but failing miserably as it is tainted with greens and that ever present blue that makes them droop, that no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't get it right, that half of the canvas is missing impasto, that there is a fury in them that slowly fades into defeat, that he can't even give it his name because he knows he isn't worthy to claim it, not because he hated it and didn't think that it wasn't worthy of him, that he abandonded it because he knew he could do it justice, so why bother? He would hate that it was praised as a masterpiece because it was a failure, why can't they see the suffering in those lines, those colours, why does no one else understand, I feel as if I am the only person who has ever wept over that canvas besides him.
...seriously, that's the danger I talked about before, when I let myself feel it just floods and I am actually shaking, everything else completely forgotten as I remember how everything else fell away. And I wonder why I waver on when to go to the van Gogh drawing exhibit? I fear my reaction, fear the complete and total breakdown as I see the emotions laid bare on paper and canvas and feel them as deeply as if they were my own. I seriously wonder why me, why him, and if it's all in my head, or if there's something in the past I don't know about.
But, I have to leave him aside because otherwise I will never sleep. So do I stay here? Do I go to London or Japan for study abroad? Do I do it for a semester, a year, a summer? I just don't know. I want to discuss it with my father, but I don't. I don't know if I can actually look him in the eye and do it. Why? Is it because I feel like such a horrible, pathetic excuse for a daughter, who despite knowing how horrible finances are, even though he's bringing in money now, I still think this is okay? What right do I have to want such a thing for myself? And why in the hell am I falling back into that goddamn pattern of self-sacrifice?! What use is talking about it when I don't even know what I want to accomplish with a conversation?
I watched Mirage of Blaze in an attempt to figure out something, to see if it made me feel anything. Because Last Life in the Universe just seemed a touch too dangerous in this mindstate. The link here, is that the events that take place are mostly based in the area where NYU transfers students in Japan, so it connects, I swear. But I watched it in its entirety, both series and OVAs. I don't even know what I was really looking for, I've just really been thinking about Naoe, trying to figure out why I associate so much of myself in him that I go so far as to refer to that one part of myself with his name. I never realised how much of Takaya I had in me as well. "If I become Kagetora completly, will I have the right to think of him then?" he asks at the end of the vary last episode, still fearing that he is merely a substitute of Kagetora for Naoe. 400 years of fucked up history that this poor kid is fighting against. I start feeling myself fall apart around the same time he does, when he feels so betrayed and confused by Naoe, but he still holds onto the cigarettes, lighting them one by one as if incense lit in memory. And when some punk kicks the pack, he starts a fight, then allows himself to get the shit beat out of him and as his brother picks him up, asking, "Did you hold back out of kindness or because you wanted to be beaten?" while even unconscious, Takaya still holds onto the cigarettes. It's a way to keep him near without the pain of his presence. And when he wakes up, his words just come out in a flood, saying that he always was alone and that he allowed himself to get accustomed to Naoe's kindness, that he wanted to stay there forever and was afraid of being abandoned, that he wasn't sure if Naoe was there because of him or Kagetora, and he just looses it, collapsing in tears. The first time I watched it, I found it hard to breathe and almost cried. This time I found it so hard to watch because I felt it so completely, that I went far beyond thinking about breathing and tears. He can't figure out where he stands, and even though he wants Naoe close, when it happens and that line is blurred, he is terrified, but I don't think so much because of what happened, but because he wasn't sure if Naoe was doing it because of him or Kagetora.
But I just find so much more in Naoe. He is a man driven by demons of the past, wanting to break away from his feelings and can't, even when given the choice. Because no matter how much he says he hates Kagetora for everything that's been done, it's not about that. He stays because he doesn't know what else to do, Kagetora is just so engrained in him, it is literally the whole reason for his existence. To protect, even at the cost of his own life. Self-sacrifice for the one you love, even if they don't want it or care. There is respect for each other as vassal and subject, but there is also that deep-seeded resentment. Nothing worked out the way it was supposed to and nothing seems to change, even if one wants it to. And even though Naoe wants to leave at times, to just walk away, all it takes is a few words and he stays, because there is no other option. Even if it hurts, no matter how deeply, to stay by his side, Naoe does because it is the only place where he has a purpose, has a reason, has any small chance of happiness. He allows himself to be chained and for Kagetora to be the one holding them; no other is worthy of such dominance. And the one time he rebelled, when he allowed himself to act as he wished in order to make the madness stop, he regretted it and it changed everything to come. Despite it, they need each other, all of the pain is only proof of the deeper emotions beneath.
It makes me want to read the forty some odd novels that go along with the series, but my Japanese may never be that good, if it ever becomes as such the books will most likely be impossible to find, and there is very little hope that they'll ever be translated and brought stateside. There is just so much there, so much more that I want to know. It's almost as if by them finding an answer, I feel as if I will as well. But Naoe, for me, is that masochistic side that gives into the darker emotions the tie me to the one I cannot break away from, but the one that knows how to put on a calm, collected front of confidence. Because as much power as he holds over me, I, at a time, held power over him as well. We inflicted our fair share of wounds upon each other, some of which will never heal. It is only with the Buddhist class that I allow myself the possibility to question if maybe this is like then. That for centuries we have been in cycles such as this, with another to make sure we don't destory ourselves completely. But I shall remind myself now to never watch this series when in a mood like this because it leads to thoughts like the above. I found little comfort, because knowing you're not alone from an anime is really quite pathetic, especially when it is coming from someone as complexly fucked up as Naoe. But I still find it to be an accurate label of that side of me. It is Naoe and no one else, and because of the ties, it is why I feel that the writer inside is Naoe as well. It's just rooted in so much painful history, but I know I will never break free, because I know that I never will truly desire that kind of freedom. I define myself through that particular pain and to seperate myself from it would be impossible.
And, because this can't be all doom and gloom, an amusing page from a manga that I read the other day. It's the only time the girls appear, but it makes me laugh all the same. I'm just glad I don't have class tomorrow. I don't think I could handle questioning my existence on top of all this other bullshit. But some answers would be nice, but all things in their time, I guess. I should probably try and get some more sleep. 8AM to 4.30PM is really not a schedule I should become accustomed to, methinks. And considering that it is forcasted to rain everyday until Tuesday next week, I should really be mindful. Weather like this lets me slip away into those deeper parts of my mind, and since I only have class on Tuesday and Thursday this week, I should be cautious. But it is nice having a roof right next to my window, because for the first time since living in the city, I can regularly hear rain instead of that one storm a year. It is enough to bring a smile to my face. Well, that and I get to break out the Doc's. Maybe I'll buy a pair of shoes this next weekend. Sexy shoes to make me feel a bit better, I think are in order.
