While he had been in the middle of packing away his things for the day, the appearance of the teacher reaching out to him was something that was only vaguely unexpected; his tone towards the staff was amongst the most normal of the Dragon's Alliance, and indeed, there's not a single sign of hesitation in his voice when he agrees to her request, nor does he see it necessary to ask for anything in return...
"She's an interesting girl anyway, and I was the one who called her into class earlier, so it's my duty as the 'first friend' at the new school to do that sort of thing anyway."
He laughs.
Of course, that wasn't the only reason; Shun hadn't been wrong in his worries about his position, it seemed that he had gone and attempted to befriend the one person that would eventually be coming after him -sooner rather than later- and in that sense he at least wanted the atmosphere to become and remain friendly even after they eventually came to blows.
A duel between friends was much better for those purposes, any result of a duel between enemies would have the whole class feeling squashed under the weight of the barely-constrained hostility.
"So don't worry, I'll keep it reigned in and friendly so the others don't get distracted; she reminds me a bit of me to be honest... So it should turn out alright."
Of course he couldn't just lether beat him either, but that was something that just went without words.
In the end...
He did still have to make it to the number one spot.
Exodus (Complete)
Even if the author is silenced, the performance is stilled and the actors leave the stage, the story will never truly end.
Regardless of the form it takes, as long as there are memories of it's existence, the story will continue on.
In a small ward in the heart of a once devastated town, life carries on as it always has...
Because of you.
Please, remember it warmly.
We'll continue to walk down this path for eternity.
Dawn has broken. Birdsong heralds the lifting of the veil of darkness.
Dew glints on cobwebs when the first light strikes it.
A fine mist lingers over the land even as it also vanishes.
I would like to die on such a morning.
No, that is a lie.
I would not mind dying on such a morning.
There would be beauty to be found there such that amidst it all my death, too, would be beautiful.
In the turning of the world, I would scatter. Making way so that the new world might be born.
At that liminal point, all that is ephemeral would shine its utmost brilliance.
All for the sake of the world beyond them.
What a beautiful, meaningful thing that would be.
Would it?
No.
Not for any other reason but because such a thing could never exist.
Exist anywhere but in itself, that is.
Such is the nature of fantasy.
Then, what is the lie?
The wish for meaning? Not by itself. Not even in abstraction.
The last fluttering of eyelids. A cherry blossom petal in the wind. A single digit in the grand cosmological equation.
Certainly, meaning can be found there. That is not the lie.
Shift.
By the way. Within this chamber, there is no morning.
Light has broken, yes. The fusuma creaks under its weight.
It chases shadows across polished hardwood.
It lights a fire within hazy sapphires when it strikes them.
It wreathes the wonderful 「 」even as it passes through it.
But still, I can imagine such a morning. That is not the lie.
Shift.
It is not afraid.
Rather. It is not afraid of what is there. What it fears does not yet exist.
A possibility? Rather, it does exist, but its existence has yet to solidify into presence.
Latent?
Liminal.
It is natural to fear. Fear is never the lie. Not knowing why is.
Does it know?
It.
Shift.
Well. It's about time, after all.
She.
Yes. Much better.
She has a bearing much more attuned to bluster than timidity, and indeed the latter does not last long enough to get a better read on it. It is early, the room is dark, her guide just vanished in thin air and she cannot wait to be done with all of this ridiculous faux-occult that she has convinced herself to endure. I accept any out of numerous reasons, but the fact remains that hesitance slides off this girl's mien like a foreign substance that it refuses to be contaminated with. It's not part of what makes her tick, or else it is unwanted - rust on the gears, so to speak. A rolling stone that happens to roll a bit slower is not any less averse to moss.
I assume, on her part, of course. Let me return to more factual observation.
Ah, yes. Her lips. Thin, perhaps accustomed to peeling back in toothy snarls of less than jovial nature. And see, there they are doing exactly that, parting enough for gleaming teeth to—oh. To speak.
I am still out of it. Or rather, still into it. The constituents are muddled. Not enough separation. It has been a long time since the days when dreams were not tedious things.
What's that? They say that I make Espers strong. Is that true?
“No.”
It is not true, but neither a lie. It could be called oversimplification but in truth it is a critical failure of understanding. I cannot begrudge it all the same: after all, what would those without strength know about what it means to be strong? Nevertheless, if the result is a convincing enough mimicry then it might as well be considered the real thing for those uninvolved. "A perfect copy" - how often have those words been said in derision? Not often enough, I should say.
Nevertheless.
I do not make Espers strong.
"I help them embrace the strength within themselves."
A lie? Only if strength is reckoned in absolutes. What springs forth may not be a power to topple Akashi, but it undoubtedly originates within oneself. There is no contrivance or artifice, merely a pure emanation of the self. There exist people who see no value in anything less than that.
For example.
Imagine someone who stands on the precipice of greatness. Close enough to the divide to see what lies on the other side, close enough to realise the scale of the barrier that separates the mundane from the extraordinary, that which one must exceed to join them. Suppose that person wishes to cross to that other side, to splendour, in apotheosis. The truest, most meaningful thing for her would be to stand among those who are not merely recognised to be great, but carry a name that allows no other conclusion.
A Saint cannot be anything less than a paradigm. Once they cross the boundary of ineffable divinity, their legacy is etched in stone—in legend. Unalterable. Imperishable.
She seeks the beautiful morning that will greet her as something greater, something more than what she is now.
Meandering in the worthless present, the girl dreams of a life she can find meaning in living.
I may have seen such a dream, once. But you see—
Even such a thing—is not the lie.
The lie is not the ideal you’ve dreamt up. It is not the goal that will set things right. It isn’t even the fantasy that you are living in.
Nothing will ever have such beauty and meaning as the future you wish for. You will accept nothing less than that. Anything else would be a failure. Anything else would be a sham.
And there, finally, is the lie.
The lie you’ve lived, the lie you chase, the lie you’ll never reach.
Measuring reality against a dream, you reject what cannot stand up to it. Tracing a road to the farthest distance, a path you know you cannot tread on your own strength, you reason that there is no other choice for you but to strive for those forbidden heights. You cannot live like this. You cannot amount to just this. Not when you could be so much more.
The future you’ve set for yourself is a dream that subsumes the present. The life you wish to live consumes the life that you are living. Eyes fixed on the horizon
seek
see
nothing else but that distant brilliance.
My wish is the same. I wish to witness that brilliance. But I no longer dream, and my eyes are fixed to the present.
That is why I know. What you wish for is a complete lie.
It isn't reality. It isn’t even a fantasy. It's just made up. It’s nothing but a lie that spun itself from the emotions you could not bear to acknowledge, worming into your conscious mind, a parasitic impulse that consumed your present until you could not bear to live in it.
Is such a thing pitiable? I wonder. One could say this irrational belief in what cannot become reality is what we call hope. The question then becomes, what is there to gain from a hope that cannot ever be realised?
Even if it's a lie, is there meaning to be found in believing it?
I wouldn't know.
And surely there is no god that could help you.
However, there is a way to create that god.
The illusion of god.
A false miracle for a false wish.
Even the most believable imitation cannot become anything more than a fake. The genuine thing cannot be forged, or given. But as a merchant of delusions, I have begun to worry that I am losing faith in even the veracity of my simulations.
Ah, but is that not my lie?
I, who knows nothing of true, life-affirming meaning, can only sell these children their own fantasies.
“Tell me, what is it that you wish for?”
And as for my own fantasy, the dream I’ve yet to dream...
How could I be content with never knowing it?
Last edited by Leftovers; January 15th, 2019 at 02:13 PM.
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