The boy looked at himself in his thoughts, suspended in a question of why, what, and how. How to fix what isn’t yet right, what to do in the face of disturbance, why the world just wasn’t the way he wanted it to look.
A picture of beauty and sorrow that had no clear, or comfortable, or sensible slot for his figure. His self.
He spoke in his thoughts, to the clock ticking in his brain, an eery noise hour after hour, disappointment after disappointment, joy after joy.
What was all of this?
Happy was then, happy is now.
Unhappy was then, unhappy is now.
Fluctuations between bright and dark, warm and cold. It felt relentless to exist in an empty space of answerless bounds. To feel an empty void that might usually be filled, but not today. Not now. Not here.
He traveled many worlds, many people, many dreams and many doubts.
Judgement, acceptance. Agreement, discordance.
What each travel gave him was unmountable in words, indefinable in worth.
But there he stood, unsure.
The world can be harsh, the world can be cruel. People can be enemies, enemies can be friends. The line between a happy life and a disturbed life is not one that provides its investigators with a clear warning of where not to step.
Home. Home. Home. Home.
It will pass, he thinks. He knows this.
But the passing is the hardest part, to sit there amidst the toil and tumble of a misunderstood, misportrayed soul.
“I am happy,” he said. “Just not now.”
“I am understood,” he said. “Just not now.”
Perseverance flooded his wounds, and lifted his soul.
The heart that shines bright, defines character, and rests easy in the life he knew was good, fluttered back into confidence.
Self-doubt the droplets of rain washing down an umbrella.
Judgement the dirt on the soles of his feet, to be washed away inevitably.
He was there, he was clear, and life was once at equilibrium.
Written in Kyoto, Japan