#spaghetti vignetti

[kae-and-boi]

お前と落ち

お前

You see her from a distance.  She is always walking farther and farther away, and you can never catch up. 

It’s hard, to watch the one you love become nothing more than a memory, a far off dream. She is a faded photograph, left to gather dust in an album abandoned upon a shelf. You can’t reach that far, not when you are so so young. She used to be beautiful, brighter than the sun.   Perhaps they have all forgotten her, unlike you. You certainly haven’t - You still remember the halcyon days where everything was good and she shined.

You remember when she used to smile and worry about nothing. She didn’t have to look over her shoulder, trying to see who would hurt her next. It was a beautiful time, full of grandeur and flowers in full bloom. Where did it all go, you wonder, and who’s fault was it? It certainly wasn’t yours. Right?

You remember when she used to sing, Fireworks and Love Story and all the other stupid pop songs her little heart of gold knew. You sang with her. Her heart used to be so big, big enough for everyone and their mother. Maybe when you met her it had shrunk a bit, the world slowly dimming that light It tried to

but she continued to love, and love, and love until one day, she didn’t.

But before that, she laughed. There was a spark in her eye that made you want to abandon your responsibilities You wanted to live wild and free like her. To run like the wind and follow your dreams, To  live each day by her side and never let go.

And you do.

You’re no fool and know better than to let someone as bright as her slip through your hands like sand in an hourglass. Summers take shape in the form of leaving your house before the sun rises so you’re with her when it does. Golden afternoons spent chasing each other through forests of trees, laying in the sun, and tea with too much sugar. Warm nights in the comfort of your room, the sound of your laughter drifting through the window as you talk late into the morning.   Cold days are when she wraps her arms around your shivering body, always just as warm as her heart. Winters take shape in the form of too many blankets on a couch, the two of you buried under layers of fleece and cotton with cups of hot chocolate that are too hot to drink.

She is everything to you.   Your sun, your light, the very heart beating within your chest. She is love, in all the ways you never knew.

Slowly but still to the march of time, you grow up.  You both do. She grows older beside you, taller with every month.  She out-grows you, at first only by an inch and then ten more. Her face loses its fat, her father’s defined jaw shining through and you think that she is easily one of the most beautiful, kindest people you are ever going to meet in your infinitesimal mortal lifetime.

Everyone says the same of you, but you are short and you may have a pretty face, but your mother tells you that a pretty face will get you nothing in life. You think that she will say the same, and that she does not need you anymore now that you are both older.   But she is still the same girl who taught you love, and she still loves you. Aging, as fast as it seems, is sedate, crawling along with every year that passes. It’s a long process, but she never loses that brilliant, glittering bit of hope that warms you like a fire on a cold winter’s night. She never changes, keeping tempo to the hurricane of your life. Since the day you met, you believed that nothing could separate you, not after long nights on the phone and short summer days spent in each others beds. You two have lived by each other’s sides for so long that without the other, you’d be lost. She would be lost. Wouldn’t she?

And then, when the golden hour shined, You found her gone Plunging you into darkness. You never thought that there would be a day where you would watch her leave your side.

Everyone around you  stepped over the threshold and into a new life, towards a brighter future. The gates opened and the floods began, growth and change affecting all of you. You embraced their warmth, moving with the flow of time. She stayed beyond the gates, forever apart from you. As you sailed on to the future you reached out. She didn’t take your hand.

From then on, she was different.   She stopped singing, like something (or someone) had stolen her voice, leaving her mute. She stopped talking to you.   She stopped smiling, and laughing, and stopped everything else that made her different from the people around her. Slowly and then all at once, she vanished.

No more late nights on the phone. No more walks in the park. No more secrets or smiles in the dark. The light of your life was extinguished before your very eyes.

Your best friend was gone, dust scattered to the wind. She became someone else, someone that was a stranger to you. They looked, even sounded the same.   They tried to be her, and they were almost perfect. But it only reminded you that she was never coming back.

Given time, you realize that maybe it wasn’t her choice. He stands behind her, a hand on her shoulder. You think he’s the one who stole her away who silenced her quiet, lovely  voice.

Yes, when you think about it, everything began when he arrived with the fall. She disappeared, and all you had was them. They were a poor substitute, lacking in all the places she hadn’t and it was his fault. He was the one who stole her away and made her into someone else.

That was fine, you realize with time.   As long as they looked like her, sounded like her, You could pretend that it was her. But one can only survive on an imitation for so long

It was slow; You found yourself without her more often than with You found yourself cautiously treading waters that used to be safe You found yourself freezing because you could no longer see the reflection of her sun in their cold, cold moon.

They say that they’re the same, that nothing has ever changed. But you can see through their lie, see the innocent blood staining their skin. He comes to you once, to tell you that they aren’t yours anymore, and that they never were. They don’t come around anymore.

It’s not fair. She gave herself to him and he ruined her When she gave you nothing and you gave her the world.

[kae-and-boi]

骨

what is bone to us, but a memento of who we used to be before our flesh rends from our body?

what exactly are we, at our core? can you tell me? are we simply bodies meant to deteriorate with the passage of time? do we have any other purpose than to live a life to only die in the end? i guess you wouldnt know, thats fine the only song you sing is one of destruction my friend we both know it all too well

i can tell you that we are not our bodies, we are our minds within our bodies, delicately cradled within we leave it all behind when we die 206 bones that form an empty cage if i am not my body, then what am i? if this is what we are, how can you say that you are still you? but what i want to know is this: am i even real? who is to say that i am? it is not an impossibility that i am simply a ghost, a remnant from my long distant past left behind by a decaying corpse, if even that? what if all i am is memories engraved in bone, nothing more than a mind held within the cage of my body? you say no, but i say that this body of mine is nothing more than skin and bones, a hollow shell of your own creation, but also mine blood stains your skin, coating your hands your fingers your lips, dark fingerprints litter my skin, (and we all know whose hands left them) together we carved a tale of love and ruination into this body, skin thinner than paper, bone softer than wood one touch and it all crumbles    a w a  y (you know this all too well, as do i.) this identity of mine may be an illusion but it is something that i can call ‘me’ whatever ‘me’ may be i am not so sure anymore, not after after everything so what can you say to that? how does it feel, to know that you were the one to tear my paper skin from my paper body, to snap my wooden bones beneath your cruel hands, breaking everything that i can say is me? am i only a doll to you, a fragile porcelain thing that cannot feel? am i a toy to you, a puppet whose strings you hold? yet you are a merciless master, for when you have no use for this plaything of yours you command me to be quiet, to speak no words and leave me atop the highest shelf where no one else can reach there were other dolls there once, but they have all abandoned you for kinder souls i want to follow, trace their path to freedom, but i do not know where they have gone all i can do is sit and listen sit and listen to the others who speak their mind, whose bones remain unbroken, identities intact. sit and listen to the others who know no pain, skin thicker than blood and bones harder than steel. sit and listen to the others who live life as they wish, belonging to no one but themselves. was i ever one of them? was there ever a time when i never knew you? a time where i was who i was meant to be more than just 206 bones i cant remember anymore. too many things blend together, too many voices and colors. how long will this last?  how long do i have to keep myself silent? only as long as i can stand it? i cannot endure this empty, echoing silence that threatens to consume me even broken, i am me that is the one thing you can never take my heart, my love, my soul, they are yours but not me i belong to me. you can break my body cut my strings put me on the highest shelf but even then, there will always be a way to climb down, to leave your lonely shelf more string to replace my severed ties hands that can heal my broken bones and sew my soul back into my body porcelain clay to fix the cracks in my skin paint for the faded color in my eyes and the red of my lips and enough love to make up for the attention you never gave me i can only be yours for so long nothing is meant to last forever, love even us, bodies minds and all we will leave behind a body when we die, and it will slowly rot leaving nothing but bones beneath the earth until even then those bones have turned to ash our thoughts gone from this world we are all only temporary, living only to be forgotten so you can hurt me snap snap, go my bones, my mind, snap snap beg me to love you as you have loved me which is to say, not at all claim to know me better than i know myself you know nothing, silence fills your thoughts insist that i stay by your side only by free will do people stay speak lies to my poisoned mind better than singing sweet nothings to an empty heart whisper hatred to my heart there used to be so much more than that, but you took it all away and all i knew was you but i am more than your broken toy i am loved by others who are not you i am stronger than what you made of my splintered remains i am power i am alive i am me i am  f r e e yes, i am scared, so much more than you know i have known those shackles, those chains my entire life and now they too sit atop that empty shelf, invisible to everyone but you and me a memory of the past, the only proof left that ‘us’ existed so now i fly away scattered to the wind, lost in this world nowhere to go and only a dream in my heart but at long last i can say all the words i kept hidden away every little song i never dared to sing adjectives and verbs and nouns all spilling across the page writing in dark ink as surely as the sun shines in the day and the moon at night as long as i am without you, i am happy. so let me say this, as a final goodbye. deep in my heart, one healed by the hands of someone i love, i only have one thing and one thing alone to say. this is my promise to you. carry these words in your mind and let them remind you of the dandelion before its wish is spent, of the calm before the storm, of the ballerina who dances, until her body betrays her. of the cold snow before the sun, glittering beauty that melts away, of the beauty before it fades with age of the long lost love for a child, belonging to a heartless mother. these are the words i have to say. i will be me, even if all i am is bone.

[kae-and-boi]

花女

beauty is subjective, and so are your opinions　

Who is the girl with the flowers? People ask, the question easily falling from their lips. Where do the flowers come from? Why does she grow them? Too many questions, too little time.  The clock is always ticking, seasons always changing.  Time stops for no one, especially not those with curious minds.

The rainy season comes and goes, washing away everything unnecessary. There is only so much I can say about the girl with the flowers.

She is a tall thing, shorter than a hollyhock but taller than a daffodil.   No taller than larkspur, too small to be foxglove. Her dreams are morning glories, always reaching for the sky even after they are crushed by someone who calls them weeds. She walks with her head held tall, unafraid to look up at the radiant silhouette of the sun, unable to be burnt by its light. Her voice is a nasturtium, bright and cheerful to those who listen to her words.   She grows with the seasons, leaves emerging from her hair in the spring and flowers behind her ears in the summer, petals withering away as winter’s frost claims their fleeting beauty. Her hair is milkweed and salvia, enticing butterflies and bees to circle her as if she were an angel and they were her halo.

Who is she to anyone? No one knows.  If you ask around, people will tell you that they have seen her, but have no name for her face.  She is only a fleeting moment in the journey of their lives, and they have no reason to remember someone they only see once in passing.  They can tell you stories about her, but only so many know the truth.

If you ask one person, they will tell you that she does not dance, she cannot dance, for her feet are rooted to the ground.  Those roots are thin and frail, easily torn from the earth.  

If you ask another, they will say that there are flowers in her hair; colorful blooms tucked behind her ear, green stems slipped between the plaits of her braid.  Orange, yellow, pink, red. Sometimes purple and often pink but hardly ever blue.

If you ask someone else, they will say that her veins run black with ink and that she blushes green, but not with envy, never with envy.  Perhaps her blood is not really ink and there is no chlorophyll coursing through her heart, but it is all just a metaphor.  Everything about her is just a metaphor.

Another will say that there is dirt crusted under her fingernails, a silent testimony to her dedication, to the love and care she pours into her garden and not herself.  Even if she washes the dirt away, there will be more there anyways, so why bother? She doesn’t.

(Why delay the inevitable, when you can accept it?)

There are dozens of stories that people can tell, all about the girl with the flowers.  There are some that everybody knows, and some that only one person knows.  There are some that only He knows and They know.  There are some that only I know.   Would you like to hear them?

I can tell you that the girl with the flowers, with the flowers in her hair and secrets in her garden, sometimes sings. Her voice sounds like the wind touching the dead branches of winter’s barren trees, of rocks colliding as they roll down the mountainside, of rain striking the roof of your house during the strongest storm.  Sometimes it is beautiful, but sometimes it does not sound so pretty. And so she sings in this strange, broken way, for her flowers have no voice of their own and neither does she;  instead borrowing the common tongue of the flowers. This way, her voice will always sound beautiful to them but not to any other.  (After all, she only sings for the flowers.)

I can tell you that she often looks to the sky.  The girl with the flowers looks for the light of the sun in everyone she meets, hoping that someone may have that same warmth in their heart. She searches and searches, yet finds nothing. Disappointment finds its way through the cracks in her heart, carefully worming its way past the jagged edges there to lodge within, much like a weed in a flower bed left neglected for too long.   So she turns to the sky for that kindness, looking up as the sun reaches its zenith.  She revels in that light as the flowers do, turning so that she faces the direction that the sun points her in.  (Perhaps, there are one or two people that contain that same bright energy, but they are so few in number and so hard to find.  The ones she knows, she holds close and dear to her heart, afraid that one day she might lose them.)

The last thing that I can tell you, is this, dear reader, I am the girl, And the girl is me. We are one and the same, yet that I find when I need her most, she is gone.   Like seeds scattered to the wind, the girl with the flowers is there one moment and gone the next, vanishing without a single goodbye.  She leaves my questions unanswered, and I must wait until I see her again. Of course, there are dried petals lingering in the wind, but it is not the time to tell you about that.

Now, it is the time to say that all flowers live a short life, and the girl who carefully cultivates them is no exception.   They sprout from the earth, small green shoots that reach for the neverending light of the sun.  Growing, always growing, spreading their leaves and unraveling, beginning to bud. Then they bloom in technicolor, bright and beautiful, no two flowers ever quite the same as the other.   Then come autumn and the harsh wind blows, scattering petals and seeds to the ground to grow again the next season.

The girl’s life is just as fast as a flower’s, only less pretty, half as beautiful, and she too will die at the end of autumn, embraced by the cold, unforgiving arms of winter.  Life passes her by in a chaotic mess of colors and memories, creating a whirlwind of moments that steal her breath away. She sees it all, observing everything in the blink of an eye.  Everything, all of it, is safely tucked away in her garden, rocks for the next season’s crop to cover and shield from prying eyes looking to find her story to tell to their friends.  Perhaps one day, she will find the memories hidden there, cautiously safeguarded by thick blankets of wild ivy and solomon’s seal, but not this year, and certainly not the season after that.  There’s too much of herself in the flowers she grows, that no one else sees, but that is a story for another time. She doesn’t have to worry, since the garden will be there so long as she lives on in another's memory. Yes, it is a testament to her lingering will and strength.  As long as someone remembers the girl with flowers in her hair and who sings with the voice of a mountain, the door to her garden will still be there.  

My parting words to you, dear reader, are this.

Just like flowers in winter, when the first frost arrives to claim the ground, the girl with the flowers disappears.  She takes everything with her, traveling to a far off, unknown place. Gone are the flowers she lovingly tended to during the spring and summer, gone is her carefree smile, and the door to her garden of secrets is shut tight, the key lost until her return.  Fret not, because wherever she goes, she is not lonely.  The lord of winter's gives her his icy company until spring's master can fetch her and return the girl to her solitude for another two seasons.

Where does she go when winter comes? You might find yourself asking.   That, I cannot tell you. Where the girl goes is a mystery, even to me.

(Perhaps she disappears into a safe haven, a world of her own imagining where she is loved and held. Or maybe a distant realm where no one knows her face and she does not have to be the girl with the flowers, but the girl with the coldest heart, winter’s snowy princess. A life where she is not a girl, and still grows no flowers but the world is kinder to him and forgives him every time he makes a mistake. Maybe, a life where she is free from her curse, and she does not have to go with winter's ruler when he comes calling. Somewhere, a different scenario where the girl never existed but everything else, relationships, people, memories, remained the same.  That is where I think winter will take her, but we’ll never know, will we?)

Good-bye, flower girl.  We will be here, quietly waiting for you when the winter returns you to spring and the air is warm.  Our silent vigil will continue until the seasons change one after another, slowly becoming spring once more.  Wherever you may be, we wish you well, and pray for your eventual return.

[kae-and-boi]

血液

a story of friendship, and of love

i tried to cut the rope while i wouldnt bleed you stopped me from doing it

false words, honeyed lies you told me, meaningless whispers late at night that we will always be happy, promised me a future that will never come to pass trapping me in a suffocating web of delusion and fantasy for too long corrupting my mind with thoughts of false happiness

if only you hadn’t refused to let me end this, everything would’ve been so much better for me, and for you i chose to believe you and now its too late, you’ve finally betrayed me as i knew you always would, as others had done before you, and as others will long after you you’re so blind that you cant even see what you’ve done to us my dear

i cant leave this distorted world you’ve created, not anymore you cling and grasp at everything you can touch; my clothes my hair my heart my life, digging sharp thorns into my cold skin and tearing me open eagerly lapping up the blood that spills from the wounds you make, desperate for anything of mine that you can steal

i feel you underneath my skin crawling, squirming your way through my body touching every part of me with your poison searching for the one thing of mine that you’ve always wanted, what i hesitate to even call mine

what you crave is my heart, all of my love once upon a time in a galaxy far far away i happily gave my everything to you, my dear then, you had my affection and you took it for granted now i refuse to give a piece of me to you, who hurt and lied to me and turned me into a monster that i can’t even begin to recognize at least i still bleed red just like every other beast i know

i’m not sure i even have much of a heart left to give, anymore i dont think theres anything left of what i once called mine, but who am i to complain i freely gave and freely love, never once thinking about the consequences, that one day i might lose the only thing keeping me together you’ve twisted, shattered it beyond repair, crushed it into a fine dust and used it to powder your face but even if its gone you wont take no for an answer, never have, and that’s what i love about you my dear now it’s too late for salvation

this rope between us has thickened, thread hardened and unbreakable what once was thin string became a noose and now a glittering chain no hands can untie these knots, not even mine no knife, no blade can cut you away no fire can burn away these fond memories no matter how hard i try to wreck, to ruin, to destroy this connection between us, i will be long dead before the deed is done

this accursed red string of fate digs into my skin leaving marks only i know are there that no one else can see it cuts off my circulation and i forget how to breathe breathing is for the living and i am just a corpse but it’s okay it’s okay you are a rose and every rose has its thorns

yet even when it softens and becomes fragile thread once more i can never bring myself to end it given every chance, every opportunity i cannot sever our cursed bond

because if i cut the rope now, i’ll bleed just like i feared, and bleed and bleed and bleed and bleed until i have no more to give and even then you will demand that i bleed just a little more just a little more and you’ll leave just a little more and you’ll walk away just a little more and i will be free whats a little more blood when i’ve already bled so much? but what will i be then?

only a hollow husk of who i used to be, a ghost in my own body not worthy of a live worth living

[kae-and-boi]

who cut down the cherry tree?

you never know how precious something is until its gone.  treasure everything.

When I was younger, we didn't live here.  There was a family of one little girl, then two, and their parents in an apartment on the second story, Number Four-Hundred-Ninetysomething if I remember right.  It wasn't much, but I still remember that stupid apartment, and what it was like to growing up there.  Early nights, early mornings, no expectations and no living shadows.

One bedroom was for my parents; a queen-sized bed, two bookshelves, one of a pair of mirrors taller than I was, and a set of black rectangles with buttons upon buttons.  When my parents pressed certain buttons, it would make music and sometimes, we would dance.  I didn't know what a stereo was when I was three, and neither did my sister.

The room also had a window, I think, facing somewhere that let the sunlight in.  You could see more apartments, but also the sky and a bridge and the very edge of the Costco that was nearby.  It always smelt of old books and dust, although my sister and I were noisy enough to keep the dust away.

The other bedroom belonged to me and my sister.  It also had a window facing the sun, and at first, one bed.  Then there was two, a plethora of toys for little girls, and more strange pale  rectangles on dark wood.  They made sound as well, but different from the black ones and it also had moving pictures like Harry Potter, that I had yet to see.  Dad used them a lot, and one day I put an angelfish sticker on the second largest rectangle.

'It's Gill!' I told him, pointing at the fish.  Dad laughed and 'Gill' stayed on the picture screen until the move.  He called it a computer, but four-year-old me didn't know what that was quite yet.  I was content with not knowing.

Both rooms had the same drab carpet that felt rough against my cheeks, but soft against my fingers.  It got cleaned every now and then, which meant we had to clean everything off the floor including the chairs.  We did not clean.  Most of it was pushed under the bed until the Carpet Man came and left, then we made a mess of the room once more.

The soft-rough carpet spread out to the living room, where there was the TV, VHS and DVD players, and a bunch of other things that I didn't know the names of.  The shelf under the TV and media players housed several childrens' books and movies, and there were two faded couches there as well.  To the left was the kitchen, one of the only tiled rooms in the apartment.  That's where my sister and I would sit in pots and pans to bang wooden spoons on the floor, to 'make music'.  There's pictures, maybe a video on tape, somewhere.  

On the counters of the kitchen, a toaster oven, microwave, and some gray blurs that I can't remember what they were.  Whatever they were, we don't use them anymore.  The toaster oven and microwave still live with us in the New House, used regularly and just as good as they were all those years ago.  One time, a bee flew in the house and our mother trapped it in the toaster.  I can never remember whether she toasted it or not.

Left of the kitchen, if the living room was on your right, was a sliding door.  There was a balcony patio there, where we kept the bikes.  There was also chalk and a wagon, which my sister and I would ride in.  How we managed to run around with a wagon in the small enclosed space was always a mystery to me, but we did it somehow.

In comparison, the house we moved to was different.  

There were no stairs to climb, no child locks on the doorknobs (although I knew how to take those wide door mittens off) and it had more space, but the room placement was nearly the same.

The kitchen and bathroom were on the right instead of the left, there were no books in the TV shelf, and the record player was put away.  The stereo, along with Dad's computer went to our new garage, where they were never heard from again.  A new computer found its way into the house, black instead of beige and faster than the last one.  Same drab carpet as the Apartment.  Same beds, only this time we never had to nap in them.  Same family, only daysmonthsyears older.

My parent's room was less dusty, and its window didn't face the sun anymore.  The dresser, which used to live at the foot of their bed, was evicted and exiled to the closet where it still lives to this day, lonely in the dark.  In this new House, old things were left in 'storage' and new things were put in its place.  The radiostereo was stashed in the new garage, as well as the mirror that I had finally grew taller than, being replaced by the closet mirrors, and there was never another earthquake in the bedroom until January 4th, 2018.  The bookshelf and the M&M jar stayed, as well as Opus in the coin can, but it wasn't the same as the old room.

Our room still faced the rising sun, but it smelled funny and was too clean.   The picture box, which was later named a computer, was moved next to my dad's side of the bed and our mother's childhood dresser was put in its place.  The desk chair where Mom sang us lullabies went with the computer and Gill, moved to the next room, until Gill moved to the garage.  The chair stayed.

But the rough-soft carpet was the same from the apartment, a dirty gray-brown that Mom insisted was 'beige', and so was the TV, and all of the furniture.  It didn't smell the same, or feel right, but it had a garden and a backyard and a front lawn with grass.  School was in walking distance, elementarymiddlehighschool, but it was farther than all of the grandparents but it made us neighbors with an aunt and uncle on Dad's side.  

We kept the bee-toaster and the record player and the VHS tapes.  The beds were eventually exchanged for a bunk, and a table older than me and my sister combined was put in, along with two more bookshelves and more books than I know what to do with.  The toys live underneath our bed now, sometimes haunting our sleep.  We have a new Christmas tree, new than the old one and older than our first one.  The old TV finally died and a new, bigger one was bought, still working and never broken.  Two matching desks, also older than us, came into the house, and a computer went on top of each.  Ghosts wander the hallway of this new house, and demons live in our backyard.  My favorite is Jeffery, the spirit who misplaces our things in the strangest of places.  House keys end up in kitchen sinks, favorite shirts end up in the filing cabinet Dad lost the keys to, and Kindles make their way into fridges.

Even now, I can still remember the old apartment from eleven years ago like it was today.   I remember the way the kitchen was too small for all four of us to comfortably squeeze into, even if two of the four were children, how I would get up like clockwork on non-school days to watch Disney VHS's, and the tiny 'country-style' Christmas tree that could never hold all out our countless ornaments.  It seems as if it was so long ago, but I can still smell the settled dust of apartment fourhundredninetysomething, still hear a woman gently humming lullabies to soothe her children to sleep, still see a little girl stealing a piece of taffy in the dark of night, and the smudge on the wall where a toddler tried to paint a rainbow, when times were much simpler, and then I realize that it is from a different house long gone, and all that's left of Cherrywood are pictures and old memories.

[kae-and-boi]

a quiet life

why can i not be a fish?

When she visits, she sits in her grandmother's garden.  Rain or shine, Sun or shade.

It is tranquil, if you can ignore the noise of small feet and deafening laugher of children from inside the house.  Other than that, the only sound she hears is the quiet trickle of water from the pond and her own soft breathing.  The garden is a beautiful place - fruit trees in one corner, table and chairs in another, and the pond of fish on the side farthest from the house.

There's koi in the pond, put there by the grandmother.  Bright colors dart this way and that way under the glassy surface of the water, aimlessly swimming in the enclosed space.  She watches a vibrant yamabuki ogon drift through the currents, and thinks about the koi.

For the entirety of its life, it has known the grandmother's pond, and nothing else.  There's food thrown to it, streams of light breaking through the water, the other fish of the pond.  Pond skaters that come and go and slim fingers, bobbing through the water, waiting to be latched onto by a koi.  Maybe even the girl the fingers belong to, but after all, it is just a fish.  And as a fish the ogon has nothing to worry about, because koi have no homework, no jobs, no silly human things like anxiety and depression.  In the pond, the koi are free.  There is nothing to worry about, aside from simply existing.

The girl wonders how much easier, how ordinary it would be to live as a koi in her grandmother's pond.  She would never have to worry about cooking, turning in assignments late and bad grades, or what would happen in the future, or whether she likes girls or boys, if she's a he she or they.  No college applications, fake 'i love yous', SATs, disappointing her parents, no depressing thoughts keeping her awake and night and no more shadows moving on the walls.  No bothersome people, or worrying about how long a loved one will live, having to speak in front of the class when all she wants to do is sit there and slowly disappear until nothing is left.  Not a trance to show that the girl ever existed.

No one would miss me much, she thinks to herself.  Friends can be replaced, students can leave, daughters can be forgotten.  One more person would be swept away in the hurricane of life and that would be that.  Time softens all wounds, and she knows that those words hold true.  And if she lived in the pond as her yamabuki ogon did, she would not worry about it, either.  She would be free like the koi, beholden to nobody and nothing at all.

In their grandmother's garden, they sit and contemplate how meaningless and little a life is worth.  The wind whistles through the trees and they think that maybe a being a fish would not be too bad.

[kae-and-boi]

moonlight

nobody thinks that i am anything like the moon.  they are wrong.

Sometimes, I look outside my window at night.  What is I see is the moon hanging like a beacon in the night sky, surrounded by a sea of stars.  Or lack thereof.

Sometimes, I think of how the Moon watches the Earth and the stars day by day, night by night.  I think of how it pushes and pulls the tide, although no one ever asked it to.  It controls the waters because that is what its done since the beginning of time, and its all the Moon knows.  Push, pull. Push, pull.  Push, pull.

It observes the Earth as it struggles with natural disasters and politics and tiny little men arguing and fighting over the simplest of things; something the Moon knows nothing about, nor cares.  It 'lives' without caring about the problems of the Earth.  The Earth and its men have done nothing for the Moon, so why should it care about its plights?  Should the girl help the boy if all he has done is push her, call her names?

Then I think of how someone might curse the Moon for a tsunami, though it is not the Moon that causes it.  The Moon may push and pull the tide of the sea, but it never pushes harder, pulls faster.  It is a steady constant, pushing and pulling and moving to its own slow rhythm, unhurried and unbothered.  The Earth is the one that shakes and shudders, raising the waves higher than the Moon pushes them.  It is a quiet bystander, while the Earth trembles and creates the oversized waves.  No one cares.  If they believe that the Moon is at fault, they will say it is so without a care in the world.  Not that it matters, because the Moon is cool and unfeeling, unalive and uncaring.

"We have something in common," I tell the Moon when I am lonely, and it says nothing back.  I expect it to say nothing back.

Like the Moon, I silently watch the world as it passes me by.  I do not say anything as friends walk down paths that lead away, when everyone but me has an opinion, soundless when it counts the most.  Noiseless, wordless, when people make the wrong assumption and when they bicker, and never when I am blamed for something I cannot, and will never control.  I do not care, for it does not matter to me.  The world may burn around me, but I will watch as I always have, observing from a distance.

"It's your fault," she whispers as we lie awake late at night, "it's your fault my life sucks.'

'No,' is what I want to say, 'I am not the reason why,' but I do not answer.  Why bother defending myself if she will not listen?  It is as pointless as telling the sun to stop shining, so I say nothing like the Moon and am blamed for problems I did not create.  She will repeat like broken records, accusing me of causing her troubles, though she fashions her own strife.  Similar to the Earth and the Moon; one who is at fault, and one who is not.

But the Moon has it easier.  It has no ears, it has no empathy, no care in the world, so it does not hear other people's curses, pointing fingers at it for things it did not do.  It cannot hear the stars insult it and call it names, listing off all the problems the Moon had no hand in creating.  The Earth screams and yells, and it falls on deaf ears and apathy as neither the Moon nor I care, unfeelingunaliveuncaring, and the cycle continues until the inevitable fall of this world.