#albicant-thoughts

[purewhite-oblivion]

On some days, he prefers a strong tea to get him through the day. He enjoys the quiet morning by himself, leaning back into the sofa, flicking leisurely through his novel, sipping on the bittersweet liquid and feeling the warmth reach his heart. 

On other days, he prefers coffee, taken with cream and sugar and mixed to a beautiful light brown. He balances the coffee carefully with one hand, while Choe follows close behind with a platter of plain biscuits. He drinks the coffee in gulps, a line of scalding fluid burning a path down his throat. 

But rarely, oh so rarely does he crave something else. Something thicker, richer, darker, a drink that reminds him of the delicate stretch between the vitality of living and the stench of death. As he knelt there, his arms spread, his face towards the sun, the warm trickle reaches his lips. He laughs. He could taste it all now; the pain, the happiness, the loneliness, the desperation, the satisfaction. The end.  

[purewhite-oblivion]

What if you suddenly woke up from a deep(a few years or so)coma and all the things that you've been experiencing was just a dream? You never knew the Sibyl System or it's people.

"That would certainly be an…interesting experience." 

Makishima supposed he would feel a little out of place, although the mere prospect of a world without Sibyl, without alienation spoke to him as no other imaginary scenario would. He wondered if he would be the same person as he is now and promptly concluded that he would, for he was a tester of the individual human condition and mind, rather than society as a whole. 

He would merely provide the ammunition for the unavoidable war that reigns over every world. 

[purewhite-oblivion]

Literary anarchist revolutionary.

Makishima would be nowhere without his books. In his darkest hours, when his conscious wandered and his thoughts curled into the darker recesses of his mind, he would be able to pull himself back into reality with his books. 

For a while, they were mere words on paper, something for his mind to absorb aimlessly to keep himself from going insane with the lack of thought. He needed an anchor for his intellect to latch on and feed off, for him to be distracted. His books were perfect for that purpose. 

It was after he came into contact with ‘1984’ that he really realized what he was meant to accomplish in life. Schooling had done nothing for him but feed him lies about his potential. Human interaction had been even harsher, forcing him out of society and into a state of utter isolation, a deep well that even he could not climb out of on his own. 

‘1984’ convinced him to change the world. 

Literature pulled him into a world of staged anarchy, of revolutions cleverly hidden under the mess of social structure. He would not be Makishima Shogo without the aid of mere black words on white paper. And he was strangely thankful for that. 

There aren’t many things in the world Makishima found himself thankful for, but his books certainly made the list. 

[purewhite-oblivion]

Alienation (Makishima Headcanon)

If he had any other personality, perhaps Makishima Shogo would've felt happy at the fact that he was criminally asymptomatic. It was a way to be rid of Sibyl's influence, a way to gain freedom in this so very confined world. And yet, Makishima found that his heart reached out only to the darkness, the wretchedness of being lonely, of not being able to identify with anyone else other than himself and his cold, cold heart.

"Just how cold-hearted am I?" He used to ask himself.

Not anymore.

As he lives through his years, feeling nothing but the numbing distance of human interaction, it is rare that Makishima lets himself feel an inkling of self-pity. He revels in his status now, in a twisted and darkened way, one which enables him to take up the razor and slit the throats of his fellow human beings as if they were nothing but mere livestock. 

As his fingers dance nimbly across cold flesh, as he felt the icy sheen of the blade on his skin, he could only smirk to himself. With every cut he made, he was another character of the past. Hamlet, avenging his dead father. Macbeth, slaughtering for ambition. He speaks cynically, quotes dropping from his mouth as if they were engraved in his heart, seared into his mind and stored in the depths of his memories if only for his personal use. He mused over philosopher's evaluations of society, and occasionally applauds their thinking...

But never applauds his own.