Chapter Text
I find myself calm. Oddly. Why am I relieved? I shouldn’t be. The pen here attracts me, but I feel that my head cannot tilt to the. Well. I wouldn’t say it can’t tilt to the studies writings. The birds swirl in circles, chirping at a certain interval, an orderly shape, a predictable timing, not so irritating as some other days. The sky is bluer than I’ve seen thus far for the month, clouds lay and fluff beside as if to look like rims of the edges of a dome. These far away, large fluffs spectate us. I like them. Would be quite scary to go in them though. If I walk here to the edges of those domes, imagine, I’m drowned by the mist or by the water crystals, maybe it swirls in laws unwritten.
Nice play of thought. They’re above me, true, if I walk I’ll only meet them above me, these cumulonimbus. Will I gain their approval to tread their territory? Will Zeus strike me in those wilderness of potential and gesture a tornado to sweep me away? I heard cumulonimbuses carry supercells too.
I will ask though, whether or not we the club members will purchase the materials or if that business would be left for the president. I wonder if Kaiser has a branch dedicated to materials. It is quite omnipresent...
Now it is fine—yes, quite nice—to write of what of this limbo, I believed a purgatory. On calm days, preceding Saturdays like these, what fly could buzz me from the recallings of childhood? Buzz me, from propping my chin with my knuckles.
I find in Kivotos, as I look up from my pages here, the homeliness I had had.
I’d think it good to recall my times prior. A person's past increments them to their present. Yes, I think that would be good to do at this calming time.
Now I write that it seemed forever in my mind, those back-in-the-days of my past self, with my parents. I had remembered those little celebrations, or special vacations, by the virtue that within the contents of the expedition comes a little appreciation in the form of something—a snack may it be, a special ice cream, like exotic ones—for my good grades of exams, or in the exam week, amounting above the sickly ninety mark.
It was on a day no less bluer than this one that she, alongside my father, and my older sister—who had come along at that time because she wanted to meet, or perhaps study under great mathematicians, or musicologists—went into a restaurant wherein, without my knowledge, had a special food that I had been longing to try, which I thought was far away from me that it did not occur to me the menu has it available. It did. Because you had a 93% score on the exam week, I remember her—vividly so, memories almost right on my eardrums—quipping. That you get to try a wagyu steak (What marble score, I don't remember) so she continued. It’s a memory that kept its stay in my mind. I’ve never experienced that much even on my birthdays.
And I find it oddly prophetic how, by the inventiveness of the food outside of what I tried, I suspect that the restaurant had collaborations with Millennium given they have the means to these, odd culinary schticks. It was like Millennium had been there in my vocation, in one of my many callings. The restaurant itself has a main theme of calmness and peace—as I pictured it that is, it took me some effort to resimulate the muffled conversations of the interiors, my family and I were in the exteriors after all—I liked its green and white palette.
What I found strange but usual of my sister was that she was most content with her coffee, her liquefied discipline. Quite quiet.
It was very nice back in those days, especially when, after my long effort for her, mother lifted me up. When she’s jolly. I always try, always attempt to get closer to her, and it was great when my efforts showed, like the restaurant experience.
It was also because of her that I’ve gotten a good academic record. That, I thank her. Yes. That’s how I got here. The very city made of schools. The city that houses some of the best academies. And it’s a different scene too. I did not see shibanoids or robots back then, back there. It’s kind of odd, in a way. No, maybe borderline scary at first. And as all constant things go, they fade and merge into things which we take no heed of. If I make coffees and studying my habit, then I’ll no longer need to even think about it to do it. I’ll have changed myself that deeply! It would be paired with breathing, in terms of ease. The change of inertia. The uprooting of inadequate stems for better ones.
It is hereby I met president Ayumi.
And my friend.
So this may be a genuine vocation. I wonder what I could learn if I quickly read about whatever it is within my grade, and then move on to the Blu-Rays meant to be for second years. As in, spending even my casual time studying. Wouldn't that quicken it up a whole lot? I could do it in a decision as easily as I would to grab a cookie. Why not?
Oh, and I forgot, I also met Kagami
And it was before my moving here into Kivotos that I had seen her most lovely. She was a person who I’d say was very determined. She was rejected from Gehenna—Alright, if I can’t remember my mothers life then I’m not actually attempting to know her, recall…—And she had to graduate from a relatively more unknown school. I remember that she used to also have sisters who excelled, her family line had a lot of good contributors to schools and contributors to the world… Hmm. I find myself unable to remember the academies. Some here, some out there… But many of them became figures of historical study. Now I’m here, set up for a road of progress. She smiled jolly! Never have I saw a smile that bright—not that I go out very much—
I also remember other joys of her smile—I can’t help it, these are iconic memories—such as when I helped a lot when we prepared a celebration for sisters birthday, when she graduated, or when she had gotten that flair of officiality and professionality in her role as mathematician and musicologist. I looked up to her, very much. Sometimes mother showed me her academic papers, and grades, maybe to motivate me so I can become like her. Yeah, she wanted that, quite a lot. Albeit, sister is quite silent. I remembered how many times, though, that she silenced me for my foolish—okay, admittedly dumb—words. I always stayed silent whenever she was near the piano, she doesn’t like disturbance. Of course! I’m not, no, I also enjoy what she plays…
I archive, here, within my mind a lot of her achievements—I think one of her best ones is being accepted into Gehenna like our mother had wished for herself—in that tippy-tappy piano. She always invents something new. I myself had in secret dived into music theory from my friends or whatever was available in the schools I attended. It was disappointing that I couldn’t grasp her methods. But she always starts with some familiarizing pattern. An exercise, maybe. Always that melody which I think if I recollect correctly mother used to sing her to sleep with. Yes, now that I think of it, I don’t remember hearing that melody except on that piano. Simple notes, just one octave exercise before she develops and progresses from that simple set and order of notes into much more complex ones. There’s a rule in each of her progression that she sets, as if she decided the way which her music will advance as it plays. It was like creating a new fundamental history—Is that how to describe it?—It was as if she had a set of imagined histories and progressed them through their ages to play, all under the same fundamental. I suspect she used I guess some Set Theory thing as a telos of progression? These math-technobabbles… I think she expressed herself well through her music. It's very mathematical is how I'd describe it. If it was a color, it would be white.
When she ends a freestyle music, she starts and builds from the melody again, ends it and begins anew with that melody… and so on.
It’s rare that I ever talk to her, though. Was I open to that? Perhaps I should’ve been. But now, she’s elsewhere.
I admit she's a little strange, but I can't judge. No. No, I shouldn't. Maybe she's right in her ways. Mother had told me that having too many friends or even a crush would hinder in academic progress, or any intellectual progress thereof, and that it is most maximalized when pursued purely for its sake. I've never seen a friend invited by my sister, nor anyone else inviting her elsewhere. Her only friend, I'd say, is the piano. She plays it the entire day, sometimes, took a while to get used to. And the only hint of smile I'd see from her is when our mother listens to it, with an approval ranging from silence to a nod or two.
Father was a more open person. More playful. Though, my mother had thought he might be a bad influence on me given I won't be as serious in my own studies. My opinion… My thoughts… Maybe she was right? My sister, after all, was raised in a time when father worked, and mother stayed home. Now it is the opposite, somewhat—which was expected, she had the halo—I don’t know much of my dads family line. Mother never talked about it. Probably not much of a story behind it.
But mother was still very much there for me. And as per her suggestions therefore; I had the school workbooks for practice, and their contents for my personal story time reading. Boring? I guess. Fascinating at times. I don’t get the references my classmates often make of stories that are trending at the time. Are these things not shallow? They’re fiction, what possible knowledge can you find in them as you would in a workbook? No writer is more useful than an engineer. Nothing gets the world spinning more, and spinning quicker than optimizations in vehicles as it may be, or the chemist's alchemy perhaps. Books’ words slovenly collect dust, while a mathematician's theorem has an eternal stay. A forever say.
I was into music for some time. Nudged myself into it. Squeezed. Pop. Popped out. Didn’t make it. Oh well. At least mother didn’t mind me being a machine-oriented person. Yes, haven’t I written that her smile was jolly when I was accepted? I should tether these dynamic memories and swirling thoughts to the anchor of text. They’re good waypoints on lost roads. A comforting fireplace light. I do find it nice and dandy how forgotten memories of scribbled assignments, or my reasoning for an answer (which I then also forgot and so my thought process goes to the B choice and not the correct E choice) is always affixed back into shape after some change—some bend, some, maybe, re-digging, yes, re-digging from the rust within the line of logic—precisely because I’ve written them down. Writing on paper, carving on stone, what’s the difference?
So if I remember, my current interest is in vehicles. Particularly trains. What about airplanes? No, too far off the ground, too… I don’t know. I don’t want to work with something that will be so high above the soil and the roots of plants. Risky. I know I’ll see the seas which are so massive that they go into the endless expanse, but I don’t want to drown in it. So that means I also am not interested in ships. I don’t want the raging waves nor the raging thunder. Maybe they’re a small chance of happening, but not small enough for me to neglect. I’d be endlessly awake, the windows’ sight will whisper the loudest warnings to me. Just one fierce heart beat after another.
Trains are much better, yes. Their trajectory is more defined, much closer to Earth, and one can always come back to their home without the same magnitude of worry for a sink or a fall. Homely soil. The aesthetic pleases me, I struggle not falling asleep in it, and letting it carry me elsewhere with trust. Its noises are my own bedtime stories. In it, my mind is limited, no dreams can bring me somewhere else better than the moving space I occupy.
When I reach that point in life, when I have gotten from Millennium—and from Highlander—what I needed, when we can experience the vistas of buildings, the rails noise, perhaps the modification or the trains made after my name, then I’ll experience such things, with my old mother by my side.
Odd. Even the good feels inside an experience that promises to last forever, originates from a time, from a some when , and now I write myself having had a painful experience eating a chocolate cookie. Because what else can I write now? A purgatory, again. I’ve been neglecting my chocolate consumption, so the ill feeling, and the permeating mineral waters sting raids my warnings. “O homo fuge!” I hear my teeth speak.