Have you ever considered, beloved other, how invisible we are to each other? We look at each other without seeing. We listen to each other and hear only a voice inside our self. The words of others are mistakes of our hearing, shipwrecks of our understanding. How confidently we believe OUR meanings of other people’s words.
“What is the story of Fantine about? It is about society buying a slave. From whom? From misery. From hunger, from cold, from loneliness, from desertion, from privation. Melancholy barter. A soul for a piece of bread. Misery makes the offer; society accepts.”
“She has turned to marble in becoming corrupted. Whoever touches her feels a chill. […] Life and the social order have spoken their last word to her. All that can happen to her has happened. She has endured all, borne all, experienced all, suffered all, lost all, wept for all.“
Why you shouldn’t use your anime Japanese in real life
Language, and the way it conveys the relationship between characters, is endlessly fascinating. In Japanese, specifically, *everything* means something. What an anime character calls someone is important, but even how they talk about themselves has meaning.
You see, there’s no simple ‘I’ or 'you’ in Japanese.
That would be too easy.
Boku, ore, anata, watashi, omae and kimi
Japanese has several different words for 'I’ and 'you’, each applicable in different circumstances. The same way that characters pick and choose between calling each other Ya-chan or Sousuke-kun, their pronouns also have meaning. In a way this is a continuation of my honorifics post from a while back. Putting both of them together adds extra layers of meaning in relationships between people and helps in understanding how that character sees themselves in the world.
The way a muscle gets pulled
the soul is tugged by its story,
one that began before this life
that will continue beyond this life –
the soul has seen time grow
and as everything that grows
the soul is stretched and marked.
So the melancholy is not of your past,
it’s not of your parents nor personality,
it’s of a connection to the earth
that has seen and still sees
blood and tears seeping into its soil
that drains into the roots of the soul,
weighing them deeper into the world,
like an anchor that imprisons the ship
so is the soul bolted to its tragedy.
Melancholia Bird doesn’t have her own voice, she is an echo of people’s sorrows. A long time ago she has lost the wings; she gave the feathers for restless sad souls who met on the way - and now at least in a dream they could fly . She retained only one dilapidated and moth-eaten black feather with an emerald tint, in memory of the times when she was alive free bird.
i actually love that suburban high school aesthetic. brimming with reveries & teenage dreams.
those elegant-vampiric redbrick school buildings, three-hundred-years old with shielded pasts, sophisticated gates that squeak and creak like old floorboards or wounded warblers when wrenched open, a vast lawn for spilling blood & dirty secrets after class.
school libraries and how they always smell like steam-cleaned carpet, old paper and anxiety, getting lost in a particularly dense section, being hushed by the stern-eyed librarian, lullaby-inducing & packed with centuries of burning knowledge it is the most comforting room in the entire school building (as long as you avoid one certain section).
the nostalgia of a hundred sneakers squeaking against the recently polished floors, lockers slamming open and closed, the indistinct chatter of jittery voices all buzzed up on something or the other, sheets ruffling, bodies slamming into one another, the prideful chorus of a school anthem pouring out of the throats of overexcited cheerleaders.
passing notes to your friends in class, pens tapping against wooden desks, the way the girl sitting behind you’s laughter runs downstream and the boy who talks to no-one, always looking like he’s hiding something.
disembodied voices coming from the bathroom, various bright and persuasive posters encouraging you to join various clubs tacked up everywhere, the theatre a ramp of glitter & deception, post-it notes stuck to skin & gum clinging to the soles of your shoes.
the malicious rumors that flitter at lightspeed frequencies and build up like bed bugs, slip into every nook & cranny like dust, how the janitor once found a body in the broom closet and the history teacher’s into the dark arts, how all the staff gather after-school hours in the gym to perform satanic rituals, how someone once broke into the principal’s office only to find it covered in caution tape.
breaking into the school at night, hearing soft chanting like the distant mewling of traffic, a parking lot as sullen as the deteriorating gleam in every student’s eyes, the ghost of a little boy rounding the corner, a prophecy engraved into stone and the hellhouse graffiti lining some of the walls.
the clausterphobic feeling of a thousand trapped teenage souls, melancholy and raging anger sprawling from the ceilings and leaking out through the taps, setting off the fire-alarm accidentally, attending an exam you thought you’d taken a bunch of times already, staring out the window because you thought you caught a shadow flicker by during detention, the man on the speaker announcing yet another prom or pep rally bloodbath.