Madness

Pycha: I know now why I am mad.

Achyp: What is it, Pycha? The mind? The soul?

Pycha: The ascent. It drives people to madness.

Apych: Indeed it does. Those striving for the top soon find themselves climbing mountains of corpses, crossing bridges of bones, and conquering bloodied heights.

Pyach: Then perhaps you should have said so to Achyp earlier.

Apych: I thought he'd have known.

Achyp: ...the ascent, indeed. It turns you to a mindless vessel. A body of knowledge and thought. A lesser being. The answering machine, the mechanical being.

Pyach: Isn't it ironic, Pycha? That those aiming for the top merely become tools for those below. Is it altruism? Is it parasitism?

Pycha: It is reality. It is not a unique situation, nor will it be. I have witnessed this before in others, have I not?

Pycha, Pyach, Achyp, Apych: Indeed I have.

Pycha: It comes then without saying that such will happen to me too.

Pyach: Yet isn't it queer? Something strikes you apart from those who succeed.

Apych: Yes, perhaps it is not the ascent but the self.

Achyp: The mind, the soul.

Pycha: The goals. The ideologies have corrupted them both. It has been a foolish ideal to uphold; a foolish oath to keep.

Achyp: But the hope, Pycha. Does it still exist?

Pyach: The hope is neither a means nor an end. What purpose does it serve?

Apych: None but to send the self further into the wilderness. I thought you'd have known.

Pyach: It was rhetoric.

Apych: And it was sarcasm.

Achyp: The goals, though. What went wrong there?

Pycha: The goals themselves were wrong. But how? I am not sure. The mindset? The dedication? Yes, the dedication. The need for the ascent. It has driven us to madness.

Pycha, Pyach, Achyp, Apych: Indeed it has.

Pycha: Do you call it a pity?

Apych: Perhaps you'd rather call it a pittance.

Pycha, Pyach, Achyp, Apych: A pittance, indeed.

To be unable to help

Synd: And what is it instead that ails you this time, O Pycha? It seems to me that of late you have had more to ponder over than usual.

Pycha: Of course. The waltz is never a fast one, and dancers step three to every measure. The prologue, the conflict, the resolution. The hamartia, the peripeteia, and finally the exile. Will anagnorisis exist for the exiled? Will there be cartharsis for the audience? The saga is in its early stages, Synd, and much more will be in progress.

Synd: Then for what do you ail for, Pycha? What role could you possibly have in this great unfolding of a play but of the audience with its feelings of transient revelation and understanding? The audience will mourn for Othello as he stabs himself over Desdemona's dead body, but soon after the couple lay in eternal peace they shall wipe their tears in their exeunt. Surely you shall eventually act like them, will you not?

Pycha: It is indeed what role I will play in this very saga that has me pondering, Synd. What is my role in this world for a stage? Shall I be the Faustian king, lording over all who wish they were remotely similar? Shall I be Shylock, and claim that they too shall suffer as I have had in the past? Shall I sacrifice myself to help them, to love them, and never know the true feelings underlying those I help on their quests? Unlike Medea, I am no demigod, Synd, and I can exact no divine exit; I am confined to the world I exist in and the relationships I have with the others. But what I can do in my very context is to ponder, to hesitate, to wait. All while Denmark goes to Fortinbras.

Synd: Do you seriously have to consider your position in the saga unfolding before you? Does your trust for your peers end up so shallow? Is it impossible for you to ever see them on the same level as you? Others may very well regret that one like you would have such a personality; it matches in too well with their own stereotypes.

Pycha: It is a sad state of affairs to hang out with the rest currently while they discuss the fallen. Who shall fall? Who shall face exile? Who shall find themselves no longer in the kingdom for their sin of imperfection? Their questions head but in one direction. Yet it goes further - they live in sympathy for the exiled, for they know how it feels like to fall. What place have I there? To be stared at as the counterpoint? To be remarked against by "If only this man helped" and countless other overdue wishes and reminiscences?

Synd: Have you no sympathy for the fallen, then? Surely you know what it likes to be amongst the fallen. You have been there as many times as I have.

Pycha: Yet it is by virtue of my current state that I may not show my sympathy, is it not? I am no lord, I am merely the jester who knows more than he lets on, and mocks more than he can handle. Who finds magnanimousness in a jester, I ask you? In fact, I ask you another thing. What if it had been me instead amongst the exile?

Synd: By virtue of who you are I cannot accept that, Pycha. It is even beyond you to allow yourself to be in such a state as to be in risk of exile.

Pycha: Then for argument sake assume I go for higher ground; for greener pastures and brighter lands. What of them then? I tell you what I fear: That they bear no sympathy for me by virtue of the excuse that "This is what is good for him". The old lie, isn't it?

Synd: What sympathy would exist for a man reaching higher heights? Your argument is vain, Pycha.

Pycha: And my point uncaught by you. Does it matter if it's for the better? Might it not be for the better that the exiled learn their place? Yet it isn't so - it is the bonds that are shattered that are mourned for. The friendships broken. The time together discontinued. What then for me? Does reason suddenly turn its head to kick the emotional aspect away? Why do the teary eyes of sadness become the lifeless stares of judgment? Because it would be for the better? Hypocrisy, I tell you, that the same situation bear differing outcomes by virtue of the man. Shall I bring it further? What if I were indeed amongst the fallen? Will the same outcome occur as if I left in high flaming chariots across the sky to the sun as Medea did, the deus ex machina?

Synd: What are you talking about? These are all mere possibilities, Pycha. That they turn to reality is but a farce that Iago has cast upon you! Your mind plays tricks on you, Pycha. The world sees you the same way it sees everyone else - a part of it all.

Pycha: Then what role do I play, if not a necessary villain, Synd? Without a representation of motive, of humanity, of any aspect to myself, I am but a one-dimensioned character, am I not? Perhaps even a man who gets it all without even trying in the least bit! Perhaps then it is my duty to be the antagonist! To mock! To laugh! To never bleed! Perhaps then they might be driven to beat me, for otherwise I may very well be unable to help.

Understand, Synd. A new fear has been placed within me. One that has shown to me the fraility of my current self. You're right, Synd. Everything is a mere possibility. But if I were ever to be in that state for a good cause or not, there exists many possibilities as to what may happen. And now, I have to make sure that for the sake of never allowing the possibility of the many possibilities to exist, I must continue on this path. And if I am viewed as I am, I must never let anyone have the chance to see me as anything apart from what I have been perceived by them to be.

Synd: For your own sake I pray that this does not turn out the course of action.

Pycha: We pray with similar intentions.

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In retrospect, the very fact that I can write about Pycha is rather disturbing in itself.

Little Dots

Synd : What do you see at the top of the hill, Riezz? The view is great only for those who seek it with meaning. No glass is lucid, no crystal is clear; and no clarity will show the truth in the tinted eyes of yours.

Riezz: Isn't that obvious? I see people.

Synd : What interest is there in seeing them from so far away? Do you intend to see them as distant beings, separated from your life and self? Do you intend to look down on them, mocking them from the high end you are? Do you intend to seek out those who have long forgotten about you, eyeing them from above like a hawk does its prey?

Riezz: Certainly not. I see them as people. I see them in a way that I could not possibly have seen them as while I was down there amongst them, Synd.

Synd: And what of it? I fail to see any good perspective brought from the top of the hill.

Riezz: I see them as a network, Synd. One you can only separate yourself from by coming all the way up here, and one you reenter upon returning to the streets. Say, Synd. Have you ever thought of the people you know as dots?

Synd: Dots?

Riezz: The little kind, obviously. Perhaps you may think of it as a gigantic series of lines and dots connected together. People make up the dots, and relations make up the lines. Everytime you talk to a person, you form a little line between your dot and his or her dot. And no matter how long it takes, the line fades ever so slowly.

Synd: And what of that has to do with coming up?

Riezz: Fascination and awe, Synd. Look down there. Along the 3rd street lies a gambler with a pair of dice, cards and a coin. At the church lives a girl whose name is of the bells. Far out in the distance is a traveller who follows the stars. Somewhere you'll find a pair of siblings walking around, learning about life. Outside on one of the roads less travelled lies a coffeeshop with the rarest treat you'll ever get. Right now, even Pycha is probably at the academy deep in his studies. The thought of whether I'll get to converse with any of them again is a wonderful thought in itself, Synd. I'm sure that given the opportunity, I'd even find Saisell somewhere out there and be able to talk to him again.

It's a far-away feeling that you can only get by being far-away, Synd. The problem with being close to people is that you take it for granted that you're close to them and you get the chance to talk to them. Isn't it so? And when people disappear you just fill it in with new people. But from here, Synd, you can see everyone. The new, the old, the past and the present. Well, sum it up, I'd say you see the future.

Synd: The future, huh.

Riezz: The future indeed. Have you had conversation with acquaintances of the past? There's a slight warmth to it that isn't exactly found in everyday conversation. Maybe it's self-conscience. But it's warm. Ironic, isn't it? To be colder the closer you are to a person. Well, not exactly, and it's a skewed point, but I suppose you understand me.

Synd: Perhaps there is a period of time before I ever will.

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I'm blurring the line between monologue and conversation these days, it's rather annoying. I feel quite sad for Synd - he's such the minor character.

Pride and Perfection

Synd: What ails you, Pycha?

Pycha: Imperfection, Synd. That which ails you all the same.

Synd: Then it shall be so that you will suffer for all eternity, for the life of a perfectionist is but eternal suffering, is it not?

Pycha: Not so. An story for you, Synd; perhaps you catch me better. A novice and a master at archery face the bull's eye. The novice goes first. He aims to his best effort, and shoots the 7 ring. He aims for a second shot, concentrates and shoots again, hitting the 8th ring this time. It was good progress for a novice, he thought, and smiled. While he put his bow down and passed the arrows to his master, he wondered to himself: How long will I take before I become as good as the master? And he thought of the effort he would need to put in to continue.

He looks on at the master eagerly - he had heard of the master shooting the bullseye, then shooting the second arrow through the first. Perhaps he would see it today for himself, he thought. The master himself is aware of this, and aims his bow. It wasn't the first time, it wasn't the last time. It was just another time, and he would pull it off like the past times and the future times.

Synd: How did the master do, then?

Pycha: Bullseye, Synd. Maybe if you could land one of them you wouldn't always mull around like this. So the master took his second arrow, and aimed. The second shot was, obviously, tenfold in difficulty. Yet the master knew it was possible. He was the master and had to prove it. And when he fired, the arrow sped through the air and hit the target. Yet while the novice ran over to the target for closer inspection, the master realized that he had failed. The sound that he had heard was not that of an arrow piercing through another - it was one of an arrow that grazed against another and landed just next to it, with a few splinters on the floor from the two rubbing against each other.

No doubt the novice was impressed; two arrows side by side is a feat with an intense accuracy he could never hope to attain in the near future. Yet he heard the master shout from far away - "Get away from the target!" he had heard. A mere two seconds after he stepped back did a third arrow fly through, piercing the first arrow in the very center of the target. The novice, amazed at being able to witness the master's skill from such a close distance, ran over to the master to express his awe. What he saw instead was the master's clenched fist against the wall, his face in evident anger and disappointment.

Synd: For what did he feel anger for? For whom did he clench his fist against?

Pycha: For himself, of course. For his sin; for his failures. After all, Synd, to miss the arrow, no matter how close, is a sin in itself. No archer can possibly stand if they fail the test of accuracy.

Synd: Yet isn't it so that any man who fails will stand and train until he is at that level again? A man who leaves his sword behind only to pick it up again must train before he reaches his original ability, is it not so?

Pycha: Precisely. Do you think the master would have been as angry had he grazed the third arrow as well? He would've laughed, Synd. Laughed and commented to his novice that more training is in order for him. Yet the extra shot just proved it - he could do it and he didn't. That is his falling and his sin, Synd.

Synd: A sin to whom? He is still clearly master over the novice. The difference in skill is there. He has failed his disciple in no way, has he?

Pycha: Do you judge your sin with your subordinates as a benchmark? Is that to say that the best are the sinless? What fallacies! The best are just as sinful as we are, Synd. They are merely sins that are easier to commit. Who, then, you ask, is the sinner's sin towards? It's towards themselves, Synd. They have failed no one as you have said, yet they have failed themselves. And that, Synd, is sin to their pride.

Synd: A necessary sin? It seems to me that their pride is their sin more than their failure to stand up to their pride, Pycha. Surely it is possible for a lord to be a humble man.

Pycha: You may cry against this, Synd. A cry of selfishness on part of the master. If the master has fallen short, what of the novice who hasn't even reached the peak? If the master isn't perfect, then who can the novice idealize and have as a role model? If the world were to be so flawed that the concept of perfection not exist, must a man harp on his lack of capability to reach such heights? The lords must accept their pitfalls, they say. For the sake of those who aim to be like them. Yet I ask you, Synd. Does its pervasive presence in life make it acceptable? If a man were to accept his pitfalls, what of the danger that comes upon those who learn from him? Where will the improvement towards the impossible be then?

It is a necessary pride, Synd. A necessary pride and a necessary sin to bring about the necessary change. And though I remain unsatisfied with myself for my imperfection, it is not the sympathy of others that I seek. It is pride in myself that I seek.

Vivo Vixi Victum

Vita: A cup of lemonade, mister? Fifty pence a cup, and with the how weather I'm sure it's well worth it.

Albert: A fair worth, little miss, I suppose I will buy one. The sun's blaze and the rain's coolness seem more in dissonance than in harmony as of recent.

Vita: Indeed, these days people feel more up and down too. You think so?

Albert: Definitely.

Vita: And it seems that mister, you yourself are amongst the crowd in feeling as such, aren't you?

Albert: ...haha, is it that obvious? Well then, little miss, any piece of advice for this poor ol' man here?

Vita: Hmm. Do you believe in God, mister?

Albert: Not nearly as much as He would want me to.

Vita: It really was more of a random question, actually. What would you do if God gave you lemons?

Albert: Well, I dunno. 's there a good answer to that? God gave you lemons and not sweet apples, so that's how it is, right?

Vita: No doubt, I guess. But still, there're those who say that they'll make lemonade out of the lemons. There're those that say to plant the seeds in the ground and make a enterprise out of it. There're those that say to go and find apples by yourself. There're those that say that they'll make apple juice and have everyone figure out how the hell they do it. Then there're those who say that they'll go find a new God.

Albert: That's new. Finding a new God?

Vita: Haven't heard anyone successfully doing so, though. All they get stuck with in the end is tired feet and untouched lemons. Here's another thing then. How's this cup of lemonade seem to you? How much does it hold?

Albert: Half empty?

Vita: A pessimistic one, aren't you? The sort who thinks that it ain't good 'cause it's only at the halfway mark. Half of it is gone. In some cases maybe more, since the mouth is usually wider than the base, too! But that's no reason to treat it as a bad drink, is it? I'd be pretty depressed if my customers threw my drinks away because of that.

Albert: What would you suggest then, little miss psychiatrist?

Vita: Top it up with a small ice cube, of course. Still half empty, isn't it? You aren't going to drink the ice anyway; well, at least you don't seem the type. Yet it seems more full, and it tastes more refreshing in the end. An illusion, you might say. True on some cases, But I doubt it can be considered such a bad thing. It's up to you to find such stuff, isn't it? 'course, that's if you see it half empty, of course. Drink it up. Isn't it refreshing?

Albert: Given the weather, why wouldn't it?

Vita: Haha, that's true. Now look at this other cup, then. What do you see it as? Still half empty?

Albert: Well, what if I saw it as half full, then?

Vita: I doubt it'd be much of an issue there, would it? A half full cup is a good cup in any case. But that breeds a sense of idleness. All's right with the cup, you say. It's half-full, after all. Then you drink it and find that to your surprise half the cup's worth was missing! Reality's a bastard; half full or half empty it's a half anyway. Tricking yourself into thinking it's more without any actual action on your part is just asking to get mocked at by fate.

Albert: What would you suggest I do, then

Vita: You see the half cup's worth of lemonade? What did you think of it? Half full? Half empty? Think of it as both half full and half empty. You get a full cup that way.

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Severe need to rewrite the ending properly bugger you midnight

Class Bonding

A senior once commented last year about it. About the ACSian life, the ACSian IB life, how IB life is destructive in culture.

He told me what the second batch was like. He told me what the pioneer batch was like. I thought to myself that I as the third batch would be different.

I started thinking otherwise sometime in, but never gave it much thought.

Then someone reminded me again that it has been there all along.

----------------------------------------------------

The Prince: You are excused, O' Jack the Jester. The doctors have said you feel unwell and need your due rest.

The Jester: I thank the prince for his benevolence. I shall do my best to rest.

The Prince: Pardon me if I ask, though. What is wrong with you, Jack? It has been ages since you have fallen sick, and this has taken many of the family by surprise.

The Jester: I'm afraid, prince, that you will not understand the reason for which I find myself sick.

The Prince: Do you imply that I am not well-read, Jack? I assure you I am as knowledgeable as the doctors in the mainland.

The Jester: Yet it is by no disease that I find myself ill, prince. A jester may jest but when it is not in his capability to do so, neither is it in his capability to lie very well.

The Prince: What of it then? The illness.

The Jester: ...stress.

The Prince: A jester? Stressed? Surely you perform your job well even in illness.

The Jester: Perhaps I do, but in that case it is your foolishness doing my job for me. Do you remember the inclusion of the other royal house into our family?

The Prince: Yes, my brother's recent wed to the lone daughter of a particularly influential house. So much that not only does the wife have a say in political issues, even her parents do.

The Jester: Indeed. The ill-willed politics have caused my sickness.

The Prince: What do you mean? I see the House is very much intact and fine - I see my sister-in-law getting along with my brother and parents, I see the chefs cheerfully doing their jobs, and I see the maids cleaning the mansions the way they have always done. What is so different?

The Jester: Have you seen where everyone's allegiances stand?

The Prince: A slight idea.

The Jester: The two parents are at ideological oppositions. Your brother and sister-in-law find themselves rather stressed out every now and then due to the political conflicts at hand.

The Prince: I have never noticed such a thing! How can this be so? My brother has been fine every time I visit him! Speak as a person and not as a profession, Jack!

The Jester: Yet the very fact that I am sick should explain to you why your siblings are not, o prince. I must say that I do pride myself very much with a job well done, though.

The Prince: What do you mean, o Jester?

The Jester: Have you seen the kind of emotions that the two parties share with each other? Have you seen the stress on their children? Have you seen the faces of servants ill-treated by enraged masters? I assume not. I have kept this place peaceful singlehandedly, prince, and it is about time that the workload that comes from doing so get the better of me.

The Jester: Though I may be a mere Jester, I must do my job well in order to keep the bond of the House strong, o Prince. That, or perhaps a day will come where the House will collapse from its weak supports?

The Prince: Speak not of ominous words, Jack. They suit you not. Rest.

The Jester: Such might be closer than you give credit for, o Prince.

Such things closer to the heart than expected.

----------------------------------------------------

Three Drinks, The Final

Albert: Martin, can I ask a simple question?

Martin: Of course, old friend. Customers don't come in this hour anyway.

Albert: I know you've been doing this for some time and all, but what really made you want to be a bartender?

Martin: Hahaha, shouldn't you have asked this question sooner?

Albert: I don't know, I just never really thought about it.

Martin: Well then, have a drink first, will ya?

Albert: Sure. What's this one?

Martin: 1 measure Dry Vermouth, 1 measure Sherry, 1 measure Dubonnet, 1 measure Gin, and 1 dash Grand Marnier. What do you think is so special about this job, Albert?

Albert: Beats me, seriously.

Martin: For one, the job doesn't pay that well. It's more than a waiter, no doubt, but I'm sure my customers usually make more than I ever will. It's not the social networks, for sure; I would need to work at a bar more famous than this small adobe will ever be.

Albert: Then what is it, Martin?

Martin: Ever done a cocktail party before?

Albert: Haven't got the skills.

Martin: It's a rare feeling you get, something akin to giving a present. The moment where that one sip of your creation touches their palate, savoured, tasted and appreciated; the smile on the customer's face as he talks to his friends, swirling slowly the cup in his hand, occasionally bringing it to his mouth for another sip, with it a brighter smile. It is the smile of service, Albert, that keeps me here.

Albert: Why not anything else, then, Martin?

Martin: Because this, Albert, is nearly the pinnacle in service. A salesman delivers with his trademark smile products that are not his own; a waiter hardly any different. A chef serves a wonderful dish, but may never see the satisfaction of the diners who eat it. This is the pinnacle, Albert. There is true responsibility on my part, for I know the face of each and every single one of my patrons. I cannot betray them.

Albert: Betray?

Martin: Few other professions have it as serious. Have you ever seen a doctor prescribe a wrong medicine? This drink can be an elixir for the soul, or a poison feeding on the heart. Here's a question, Albert. I'm sure you remember this.

Albert: What is it?

Martin: If there was a drink out there that truly signified that you have matured, what would it be?

Albert: Fancy you asking me that question. Tea, coffee? What do you say?

Martin: What do I serve best? A person who can take this without the ill effects is one of self control, Albert. People have sought the elixir of eternity, but they search in vain, instead finding the poison of greed sucking at their very souls. Where is the line drawn? Where do the shades of grey end? This drink is proof of one who knows where the line ends, Albert. And it is my job - no, my life - to make sure that they do not cross the line unknowingly. And only when this is achieved do you see service done, Albert.

Albert: Your spirit is strong, Martin. This glass I hold here shows dedication; and more importantly it shows a beautiful sense of service.

Martin: 1 measure Dry Vermouth, 1 measure Sherry, 1 measure Dubonnet, 1 measure Gin, and 1 dash Grand Marnier. The drink of utmost loyalty to the customer. The drink to show the effort put into developing tenderness in the bar. The drink of servitude.

Albert: Apt words indeed. Might I be enlightened as to the name of this cocktail?

Martin: The Bartender, Albert.

November Bells

Suzu: Soon the bells will be ringing, Innocia.

Innocia: Christmas is still a month and twenty-five, Suz.

Suzu: Yes, little Christmas girl. But the Church rings them twelve a year, and tomorrow the eleventh.

Innocia: I don't think that many people go around marking the occasion if it's so often each year, you know. Is it that important?

Suzu: What makes you think it's important? It is merely a mark of the beginning again, isn't it? To one such as you. Something so trivial that people regard it as a mere amusement every first.

Innocia: A mere thought indeed. But I suppose the renewal of months is at least of certain significance.

Suzu: Why a bell, Innocia? Have you ever wondered?

Innocia: ...not really. Is it not its clarity and loudness that rings like the cawing birds? Why the question?

Suzu: Because you don't really think about it. Listen carefully to what the bells sound like. A cry of loneliness from high above, unable to ever be alongside people. A wish for those so far below to ascend from the depths they have sunken to. A mourning for the world which has been abandoned by mankind. Listen to it, Innocia, and reflect. Its call is crisp but sad, and strong but frail. Each cry is a tick closer to the end, and each chime is a mourning for them all.

Innocia: Why do you take such a negative view, Suzu? Can't you see it the other way round?

Suzu: I'm afraid I'm not sure what you mean.

Innocia: It is because it is a new month, Suzu. A chance to renew oneself; a time to start again; a way to make up for the mistakes of the past. For this chance nothing rings louder than the bells of the church, hanging high atop, their resonating chimes a relief and a call for one to firm up. And moreso, a call for worshippers to enter and give praise for this chance to redeem themselves, to worship. Each call is beautiful yet firm, joyful yet stern, and soft yet powerful. Give thanks, Suzu, for you can still hear the bells for time to come. There are those who are deaf to its ringing, and there are those for whom the bell no longer chimes for. Each sound is a month for you to relish, and each day of its silence is one you should never take for granted.

Suzu: ...I suppose it is like you to see things that way.

Innocia: What do you think it feels like to stare down at everyone the way they do? It isn't always a sad feeling, y'know. I'm sure they chime for hope and not for mourning. How about this? I'll treat you to a drink tomorrow, a toast to November. Albert'll pay. And we'll walk around, and then you can see it. I'm sure.

Suzu: See what?

Innocia: That whoever it is, whenever it is, and wherever it is, the bells will not bring a message of sadness to them. Promise?

Suzu: I guess I have to.

A Message To An Ex-Friend

Riezz: Saisell Rumerl, the outcast. Left from the Academy?

Saisell: Indeed I have. As much as I respect and hold the place in high regard, I feel that I had no choice but to leave for a better place.

Riezz: And where would you find this better place, Saisell?

Saisell: Where there is peace, o traveller, where I can write in peace.

Riezz: And where will you find this peace, Saisell?

Saisell: Where there are my kind, o jest, where I can be with my kind.

Riezz: And where will you find your kind, Saisell?

Saisell: Why do you continue?

Riezz: Because you realize that you can no longer answer the question so easily.

Saisell: I do suppose I need to give such an issue more thought, but such thought has little bearing considering I will be leaving anyway.

Riezz: Do tell on that thought, then.

Saisell: It's culture. I don't fit in. I find myself more comfortable with those from elsewhere, and yet I can't even feel remotely at ease with those nearby me. It's like every word of mine here is judged for lies. Can you live in this suffocating environment?

Riezz: Do you even make an effort to fit in? Or perhaps you are among those who complain but do naught?

Saisell: What jest do you speak, Riezz? Have I not joined their councils, societies, and their mockeries of clubs? Is that not the effort made to associate with them, and the same effort that is completely ignored and rejected? Whatever I have done for these groups they have not reciprocated.

Riezz: Your friends?

Saisell: Few, but they are important. They are the only few in the entire academy I feel comfortable talking with, and I think it were the greatest loss that I fail to have more time with them.

Riezz: ...I apologize for my crudeness. I have my doubts whether vice versa should apply.

Saisell: Hmm?

Riezz: Look at those photos. Look at these councils you are a part of. Look at your face amongst them, amongst the smiling ones. Have you ever heard people angry about it?

Saisell: Should I care about the worthless opinions of those fools?

Riezz: You should care about their eyes. The eyes of those that stare at you while you nonchalantly continue talking, being a bother while in the presence of others. Look at these photos. Look at your smile, and the smiles of others. Now look at their eyes. Look at your smile. Do you know the curses, the tears, the depth of emotions caused by that smile and for that smile?

Riezz: You probably don't, do you. Never knowing when to stop, never knowing when to keep out, never knowing when you are a nuisance... pathetically ungracious, don't you think so?

Saisell: You speak highly unlike your usual self, Riezz.

Riezz: For circumstances highly unlike human sense. Forget this. You wouldn't understand a single bit of this, Saisell. But mark, you will never find your peace.

Saisell: And at least they may never find theirs with me around. It works either way.

A Second Confession

Ruoma: A drink, good Martin! I fear the tides of memory have struck again, and it be but your wine that can calm the storm.

Martin: Of course, good sir, but what is it that troubles you? Are they matters of the heart?

Ruoma: More the past than the heart. But let me drink my drink, will you? I must drown in alcohol before my reminiscence gets there first.

Martin: As your wish.



Ruoma: ...you know, Martin. There used to be a girl I liked.

Martin: Hasn't everybody? What age were you then?

Ruoma: Younger than half yours, young man.

Martin: You aren't much older than drinking age either, sir. What did you like about her?

Ruoma: There was always an air of elegance that was exuded around her, Mart. A style that turned heads. Aphrodite's hair and skin. And

Martin: Please, keep your descriptions to a fitting age. You were but nine to ten.

Ruoma: Tis' the alcohol speaking, not me. But she was one I could not help but admire. It's a strange thing, you know? It was a joy seeing her, whether it was back at the old primary school or at the church. I'd liked her since young, and known her since younger. Then she disappeared.

Martin: Surely you could've found a better word to describe that.

Ruoma: Went away, whatever. I transferred school halfway through, and a year later she transferred too when my church built a second partner church elsewhere. I tried to chase her so much. Convince my parents, go there myself, learn the routes, I tried everything. It never worked out in the end. And there she went.

Martin: And what makes you bring this up suddenly?

Ruoma: Once or twice a year the church would have events together and I would get to see a fleeting glance of her. Do you know how much it takes? The feelings of living your life for a moment a year? Keeping yourself afloat with but a mere thought that you don't even know will be fulfilled? That the mere wish to see someone, not even speak to, were so strong as to keep a person going for years? It is an amazing thought, Martin, that you can live life for the moment though it come so rarely in life.

Martin: I assume you didn't last too long with that.

Ruoma: Perhaps I did, perhaps I didn't. Does 4 sound much to you? People grow. Youth dies out by the time you're 18. But come the fifth, and one event came that truly showed me something.

Martin: And what would that be, o alcohol?

Ruoma: Mock me not, though I can't deny the truth of that. I headed over to her church one day, and our parents happened to talk. I just took the chance to ask her one question. "Do you remember me?" "Yeah, you're from my primary school and from church." It wasn't a victory, nor something to be proud of, nor something to be particularly happy about. It made no difference. But let me tell you, Martin, that there is strange value in the mere fact alone that you exist to somebody. You don't even care what you exist as. Lover, companion, friend, colleague, acquaintance, or even a damn afterthought; I can tell you now, Mart, that being forgotten is a curse worse than death itself. And after all that time I realized that still my existence leaves a small mark in the beaches of sand. But I couldn't bring myself to be very happy. I could but force a weak smile. Perhaps, Mart, I already grew up too much. Gave up hope; felt it impossible; learnt that the odds had finally stacked too high against me. I left with a weak smile.



Ruoma: On my way back, my parents confided an amusing fact. They wanted to transfer to the other church too. But they didn't. Why? Because no one my age was transferring except for her. They were worried for me, worried that I couldn't stand not being with my friends. To damn hell with them, I thought! She was enough! But I could no longer say or think that with passion anymore, instead having them as a mere afterthought with a chuckle at the side. It's a very ironic thought, isn't it? A story that might have enraged the young me. But I couldn't, Martin, all I could do was force that bitter-weak smile with the slightest tinge of sweetness inside, not for the future but rather for the forgone past of 'it could've been'. It's... aah.

Martin: Tissue?

Ruoma: It's ok, you didn't add enough salt on your margarita rim. Perhaps you expected that? Perhaps not.

Martin: Perhaps I did, perhaps not. Why do you cry for a girl so long past?

Ruoma: I cry not for her, I cry for myself. For the part of me that I lost while waiting, while hoping, while wishing for a past long lost to a choice of irony. The part of me that could wait for years in crystal hope, that lived on a thought of random meetings a year or less, that was hope in place of sorrowful regret.

Martin: Surely you have moved on.

Ruoma: And I have. But for none else shall I look upon with such lingering regret.

Martin: I didn't mean that, sir, and I believe you have another fancy by now.

Ruoma: Tis' been a month since we talked, and a fortnight since any message. I'm afraid, Martin, that I can no longer look up to the sky with the patience and blind, faithful hope that I bore the years ago.

------------------------------------------

Some people just like to screw my stories up at the last moment. But nevermind, not like I bear anything in regards to that anyway.

The Colourful World

Three men sat on a table staring out into the sceneries of the hillsides from the safety of the balcony of the cafe. The three looked outside to the world and, unable to turn their eyes away, did not notice that the waitress was passing them their tea until her comment.

"Sir, your tea."

The waitress saw the first man staring out the window. She asked the first man, "Why are you staring out at the scenery? What do you like about it?"

The first man commented. "It is the vivid colours of the scenery, miss, that make me appreciate it so much."

The waitress was confused. Were vivid colours enough to make this scenery what it is? She probed further. "Why is it vivid to you?"

"Because I am viewing it, and because I am in it. The world is beautiful for I am in it, Miss, and I think very much that whatever scenery you view this as, I view this as beautiful and that is enough."

"What's the most beautiful scenery out there, then?"

"Anything, Miss, because I'm inside it."

The waitress gave the first man his tea. Then she moved on to the second man.

The waitress saw the second man staring out the window. She asked the second man, "Why are you staring out at the scenery? What do you like about it? Is it the vividness of the scenery?"

The second man commented. "It is indeed the vivid colours of the scenery, miss, that make me appreciate it so much. But of course, miss, there is more to it than just mere colours."

The waitress was confused. What made this scenery what it is to him? She probed further. "What is more important to you than the colours of the scenery?"

"The fact that somewhere out there, she is viewing it too, Miss. Somewhere out there, she's thinking about me, and that thought alone is enough to make this scenery so vivid and beautiful, Miss."

"What's the most beautiful scenery out there, then?"

"Anything, Miss, because she's inside it."

The waitress gave the second man his tea. Then she moved on to the third man.

The waitress saw the third man staring out the window. She asked the third man, "Why are you staring out at the scenery? What do you like about it? Is it the vividness of the scenery?"

The third man commented. "It is indeed the vivid colours of the scenery, miss, that make me appreciate it so much. But of course, miss, there is more to it than just mere colours."

The waitress smiled. "Is it love?"

"No, Miss, not the way you put it."

The waitress was confused. If not love, then what made this scenery what it is to him? She probed further. "What makes you see this scenery as beautiful, then?"

"Because it is, Miss. Do you need a reason to see a beautiful thing as beautiful? The world maybe not be a beautiful place, Miss, but let me assure you that there be beauty in every single thing, beautiful or not."

The waitress stood still for a while before she continued to ask.

"What's the most beautiful scenery out there, then?"

"Wouldn't you like to know. But alas I have no answer."

The waitress gave the third man his tea. Then she went off to other people's tables to take their orders.

The three men took the tea, and drank a sip each.

"Ah, this is good tea."

-----------------------------------------------------

-The world is not beautiful; And that, in a way, lends it a sort of beauty.-

- Kino's Journey

Rolling a Seven

(Along a street)

The Gambler: Hey lad, spare an old man a tad o'cash for a mug o'beer?

Albert: And what do I get in return, mister?

The Gambler: Three games, how about that? Cards, dice, the simple coin.

Albert: I'm gambling with a beggar? What can I win from you in the first place?

The Gambler: What makes you think I've nothing? And more importantly, what makes you think you'll win? Sit down, lad, and I'll tell'ya something.

Albert: Go on. Let's place this at 2 bucks.

The Gambler: Every single day's a gamble in the game of life, young man, and what you're taking part in is just one of the millions to come. Ask you a question. What's the lucky number?

Albert: ...seven?

The Gambler: A bright one, lad. Now roll this dice. Let's see if you're lucky.

Albert: But a dice has only six sides! How am I supposed to roll a seven anyway?

The Gambler: Yer' right. But that's life, isn't it? You never strike lucky on the very first dice if you just jump straight in. So what do you do? Throw two dice. Let's see where that gets you.

Albert: ...4 and 5.

The Gambler: And that's the other thing. Ya don't get the seven for trying again. Tell me, lad. I throw a 2. What would I need to get the seven?

Albert: The five?

The Gambler: Right, and where do you find the five?

Albert: ...the opposite end of the two?

The Gambler: Exactly, lad. That's where you get your seven - from the very two ends. And ya gotta do it at one shot, too. Here, I'll throw another one of my own dice.

(The dice flies into the air, lands on the ground, and breaks in half, with one half landing on 1 and the other on 6.)

The Gambler: Don't worry about that, I can fix it no 'prob. But ya see what I mean, lad? That's what life is - ya gotta hit seven, and ya only got one chance each time. What'cha gonna do about it? Now let's take the cards instead. Heard of blackjack?

Albert: Rarely see one who hasn't.

The Gambler: Good to know. Now let's just take one hand, shall we? I'll deal. One up, one down.

Albert: And we both have an ace up.

The Gambler: Oh, the odds! Another question, lad. What's the value of ace?

Albert: One or eleven?

The Gambler: Then what's the value of your ace? Let's turn around the other card, shall we?

Albert: ...another ace. What's the chances.

The Gambler: And blackjack. Ask a question again. What makes one a one? And more importantly, what makes one an eleven?

Albert: A one's one purely because it is the first in the series? That was quite obvious. And what makes one an eleven is the prestige of the card being first?

The Gambler: What does an ace imply, then? You don't seem to be catching this.

Albert: ...skill?

The Gambler: Exactly, my lad! Skill and mastery! That is what differentiates an ace from a jack! The jack shall never be a master of anything. Yet what is a picture that even the ace is not?

Albert: Royalty?

The Gambler: Again on the spot, my lad! The ace is but a pauper, my friend, but remember; the prince would not be as loved had he not met the pauper. And that is why royalty and ace make blackjack, my friend. Again my friend remember that, royalty is bested by the common man, but two aces do not beat two kings. It is when the lowest and the highest of hierarchies meet where blackjack is met. Now let's take a simple coin toss, the last one shall we. What do you call?

Albert: Tails?

The Gambler: And what would the other choice be?

Albert: Heads?

The Gambler: Right, lad.

Albert: How does this fit in with what you said with the other two? I don't see how you're going to split that coin in half.

The Gambler: Sharp one, lad. But do listen. When life gives us choices, we always see what's directly in front of us. We don't search. You couldn't give me an answer for rolling a seven, and you can't give me an answer now because you can't split the coin. But lad, sometimes the answer just ain't that obvious. People only see the heads and the tails. The dots go from 1 to 6.

(The gambler flips the coin, and it lands in the middle of a crack among bricks along the street, balancing itself at neither heads nor tails.)

The Gambler: But it's these sorts of answers that really let you win the gambles, lad. Answers that shock the world, maybe even yourself. Answers that make the world wonder "how did he just pull that off?". Remember, friend. Every choice in a life is a gamble, it's just how often you roll the seven.

Albert: I see. So that means I've won the gamble, right? I think I'll be going off, then. Oh, and don't use the money to buy beer, will you? Get a cup of coffee or something; or tea, I've started to grow a liking towards it recently.

The Gambler: Haha, I'll keep that in mind, lad! But what makes you say that you've won?

Albert: You've given me more than my two dollar's worth, simple as that, mister. I'll be on my way, and maybe later on I'll roll another seven, hmm?

(Albert leaves.)

The Gambler: ...A wise one, lad.

-------------------------------------------

I don't even know what made me think about this.

Distances

Suzu: And here I am, Sora. After so many years; here, like we promised we would meet. It's been such a long time, and I really miss you.

Sora: It really has been a long time, hasn't it? I've missed you too, Suzu.

Suzu: Do you still remember the promise? The promise to meet again; the promise to chat again; the promise to see each other face to face again and talk, just like past times gone. All that here, a corner or sorts that we could call our own.

Sora: Who knew that such a small promise would have taken a lifetime to fulfill? We were but mere children then, and never realized the great lengths at which we would need to take to now meet each other once again.

Suzu: I still remember how soon after the promise I had to leave, and finally after I come back... You know, you should be pretty glad. People do come and visit every once in a while and it seems quite clean.

Sora: Is that so? I guess I have to thank them for the favour. It is pretty hard to...

Suzu: I went over to visit too. Clean, orderly, with your family, just the way you would have wanted it, right? Well, at least you can be sure that people still look after whatever you left back there.

Sora: That I admit.

Suzu: ...it's been a long 13 years, hasn't it? I really miss the landscape over here.

Sora: And I've been seeing it for a good 13, haven't I? Haha.

Suzu: The place really has changed alot since the past, hasn't it? I can barely recognize certain areas around here now. But still, this area stays the same, almost as if you've been protecting this area all this while. You know, I really would've liked to talk to you all about the time that I've spent away from here.

Sora: ...sorry.

Suzu: Why? Why did you have to leave me behind? What have you done? Didn't we promise?? To meet here? After all these years...

Sora: I'm sorry, Suzu...

Suzu: After all these years you just passed away and left me behind...

Sora: ...

Suzu: ...I'm sorry. It isn't like me, is it? I wonder at times, though. Whether you're looking over me somewhere from above. Whether you ever hear my thoughts, whether you hear the things that I've wanted to say to you. But you've moved on already, haven't you? And I should too.

-----------------------------

これ以上何を失えば 心は許されるの
どれ程の痛みならば もういちど君に会える
One more time 季節よ うつろわないで
One more time ふざけあった 時間よ

くいちがう時はいつも 僕が先に折れたね
わがままな性格が なおさら愛しくさせた
One more chance 記憶に足を取られて
One more chance 次の場所を選べない

いつでも捜しているよ どっかに君の姿を
向いのホーム 路地裏の窓
こんなとこにいるはずもないのに
願いがもしも叶うなら 今すぐ君のもとへ
できないことは もうなにもない
すべてかけて抱きしめてみせるよ

寂しさ紛らすだけなら
誰でもいいはずなのに
星が落ちそうな夜だから
自分をいつわれない
One more time 季節よ うつろわないで
One more time ふざけあった時間よ

いつでも捜しているよ どっかに君の姿を
交差点でも 夢の中でも
こんなとこにいるはずもないのに
奇跡がもしも起こるなら 今すぐ君に見せたい
新しい朝 これからの僕
言えなかった「好き」という言葉も

夏の想い出がまわる ふいに消えた鼓動

いつでも捜しているよ どっかに君の姿を
明け方の街 桜木町で
こんなとこに来るはずもないのに
願いがもしも叶うなら 今すぐ君のもとへ
できないことはもう何もない
すべてかけて抱きしめてみせるよ

いつでも捜しているよ
どっかに君の破片を
旅先の店 新聞の隅
こんなとこにあるはずもないのに
奇跡がもしも起こるなら 今すぐ君に見せたい
新しい朝 これからの僕
言えなかった「好き」という言葉も

いつでも捜してしまう どっかに君の笑顔を
急行待ちの 踏切あたり
こんなとこにいるはずもないのに
命が繰り返すならば 何度も君のもとへ
欲しいものなど もう何もない
君のほかに大切なものなど

- One More Time, One More Chance (秒速５センチメートル)

-----------------------------

It's hard when Byousoku 5cm already talked so much, but I tried, haha.

Out The Window

Ida: Innocia, do you ever stare out the window often?

Innocia: Not many people do that, do they, Ida? People find themselves too concerned with the present to want to look at such stuff.

Ida: Oh? I'm not so sure you're entirely accurate when you say that, Innocia. Look at this, Innocia. The darkness of the modern city, the stationary fireflies lined up in the vast blackness. What do you see? What comes to mind?

Innocia: I see the times where I walked down on those streets with my brother, the times last Christmas when I was lost and met an interesting person in return for that. I see the times where I will walk down the street once again, wondering whether or not I will find myself lost again. Amidst all this I see the lone lampposts, and think that the scenery hasn't changed much.

Ida: A beautiful answer, Innocia; one that hardly belittles your age. Might you honor me with your ears with what I see outside the window, then?

Innocia: What is it that you see, then?

Ida: The darkness of the modern city, the stationary fireflies lined up in the vast blackness. I think of what others might be thinking at the same moment I am, staring at the lights against the darkness. I wonder at how many people there will be staring up at the star-scattered sky, thinking the exact same question as I am this moment. I feel the wind and hear its susurruses, and I hear the words of others in the present. I never really cared too much about whether those people staring up at the lone lampposts are going to stare at them tomorrow, but I appreciate their looking up at it today at this moment.

Innocia: I'm afraid I cannot share such similar views to that of yours, Ida.

Ida: Perhaps you are taking for granted what we always have. People have always looked back at the past for the reason that it is gone. People have always looked into the future for the reason that it has yet to come. They say not to take granted the uncertain future and the bygones of the past; yet what have they truly forgotten in this world? It is the fleeting present, Innocia - the moment that comes between both, the transitional period between sentiment and foresight. It is precisely because it is right in front of our eyes that we fail to appreciate its transient nature, Innocia. I apologize for quoting rather than creating, but gather ye rosebuds while ye may.

Innocia: It would be nicer if your quoting was actually relevant. Honestly, though, what is the value of that which you call 'now'? There is no sentimental value, nor is there any potential value in the world of the present. Can you honestly bear any true feeling towards something that disappears so quickly? There is no mark of eternity in the present, Ida, nothing compared to the stone etchings of the past and the tabula rasa of the future.

Ida: The value, Innocia, is in the fact that the past and future are unchanging eternities, whereas the present is the only eternal change. Have you ever wanted to stay somewhere forever? Like someone eternally?

Innocia: There's no such thing, is there?

Ida: There isn't. The only thing there is this seemingly eternal time, Innocia - the illusion that you can be there forever. In that place. With that person. And that's just the beauty of it all - it doesn't last. Engravings of the grandest works go down in the hallmarks of history, but true beauty lies in experience - that which only lies in the present. You are a child, Innocia. One with ideals for the future; one with a short past. Perhaps you just need to grow up a bit more before you realize and understand the beauty of being in the place where you actually are, not having your mind and spirits far away in space and time.

Innocia: Or maybe unlike you I have far more to look forward to than to look at.

Ida: Perhaps so. But the open window can only see, it cannot dictate what it is that you perceive. And whether it be perceived by rationalization or ideals or just the clear window is up to you.

Innocia: Perhaps so.

------------------------------------------------

This took 3 days. I'm losing touch. Or maybe I just haven't written about Innocia in a long time.

A simple confession

Martin: And what is it that troubles you, Miss? Why do you sob?

Luini: St. Valentine's has cursed me badly. A Godfather drink please, dear bartender.

Martin: That's a strong cocktail, Miss, and I rather you not drink that. What's that in your hand? I can help serve a more fitting drink.

Luini: This.

Martin: Broken chocolate? And the valentine...

Luini: Will be disappointed when I present this to him. Can't you do anything?

Martin: Miss, I am but a bartender. But do give me the chocolate. I have a good idea.

Luini: And what is it?

Martin: Simply revitalizing your feelings. First, mere milk, heated at the flame while your chocolate begins to melt to form Cioccolata. The Alexander will do nicely for a good cocktail, but since it's Valentine's, let's change Brandy to... Amaretto.

Luini: Why Amaretto?

Martin: Do you know its origin? Da Vinci and his student were once asked to paint a Saronno church with frescoes. The student, knowing the sanctuary was dedicated to Mary, decided to paint the Madonna. What he lacked however was a model, and more importantly inspiration. And finally, he found both in a young widowed innkeeper living nearby the church. When the painting was finished, the innkeeper gave Da Vinci's student a simple gift out of affection. This simple liquer, Amaretto, is that from this beautiful legend. Your Alexander for your valentine, Miss.

Luini: ...thank you. It's very warming.

Martin: And your valentine, miss?

Luini: Has served me this beautiful drink. Thank you. Might I ask one last question?

Martin: What would it be, Miss?

Luini: What was the name of Da Vinci's student?

Martin: ...funny you should ask.

Three Drinks, The Second

Earl: Albert, I've been thinking about it.

Albert: About what?

Earl: What you said the other day. And guess what? I agree. But I remember something. You didn't answer one of my questions.

Albert: And what would that question be?

Earl: Are you still yourself after all this? Is that cup of coffee just a reminder of the world's cruelty? Or one of the many other things that make up who you are?

Albert: Then what would you want me to answer?

Earl: Nothing much, actually. I got the answer myself.

Albert: Oh? Do say.

Earl: You were right when you said the world changes. You were right when you said we change. But when you said those, you were half wrong.

Albert: So I was correct and wrong at the same time? Go on.

Earl: I shan't touch on that for now. Instead, let me ask you a question, Albert. Try to answer even if you aren't sure if it's correct.

Albert: I'm here to listen.

Earl: If there was a drink out there that truly signified that you have matured, what would it be?

Albert: You're asking me my own question? Do I not have my own answer?

Earl: Indeed you do, and I have heard it. Now you shall hear mine.

Albert: Then what is this drink, Earl?

Earl: This simple cup of tea, Albert. I've done some thinking, and I think I have an answer to your question, but more importantly I have an answer to my question. Look at this little bag. A bunch of small little leaves in this small little bag - gives you a rather insignificant impression of it, doesn't it? Add the hot water, stir and give some time to let it stay in the boiling water - and you have this wonderful cup of tea you see before you.

Albert: And how does this answer our question?

Earl: You said that maturity was recognizing the pain in the world. The bitterness of the coffee testament to that, and the slight bit of sugar that provides it beauty contrast and complements. But what is recognizing? If we just acknowledge the change of the world towards this painful present, what is done? We change with the world and turn into mere beings among beings. Look at this bag, Albert. Just a simple ordinary teabag with little significance to the eye, perhaps even a sore. But add it in hot water and you can see it truly serve its purpose - It has not succumbed in any way, but rather the water has been changed by this small bag into a beauty drink. The water is always hot - what man shines from changing a merely lukewarm world?

Earl: All this in a little cup - and more. Tea, this international drink, has completely different tastes depending on the region, and certainly has no globalized form ready to drink in stores. Be it bitter, sweet, minty, or sour, all tea share one thing in common - they refresh. Perhaps we can only truly be ourselves when we affect the world around us instead of being affected by the world around us? Don't you think so? A far more satisfying answer than mere acknowledgment, is it now?

Albert: I may think so.

Earl: Then, would you like a sip?

Albert: I think a toast suffice.

----------------------------------------------

Meh, rush ending ftl. It wasn't my intention to write purely one story about this, but I suppose it's only evident in google reader since my blog doesn't show the title of the blogpost (Which says Three Drinks, if any hint). Might rewrite the ending.

Brythain, I hope that kinda answers your question. Thanks for your input anyway, it gave me good fundamental reasoning behind the entire conversation, but I screwed up lol. Meh >_>

Three Drinks, The First

Earl: Life just really isn't the same anymore, is it, Albert? From youth on up, everything has been changing slowly. Tea for me, please.

Albert: Perhaps it has. But what's changed most isn't the world around us, but really us ourselves, hasn't it? Cup of coffee, please.

Earl: Even so, isn't it because we have to adapt to the world itself? I'm sure that the world couldn't have advanced uniformly; rather it is that a small group of people advance, and everyone else is forced to follow in the same path.

Albert: Suppose you're right. What difference does it make now that you are aware of such a fact?

Earl: It means that after all this, we aren't ourselves any longer! Look at yourself, Albert. When, why'd you start drinking coffee? Since everyone at work drank it in the morning to keep themselves awake in this horrendously boring lifestyle and world?

Albert: Maybe it's because I'm still myself, that I find myself over here drinking coffee while listening to you. Is it not?

Earl: I hardly get you. Look at the world. All the issues and problems. I'm sure you're struggling with life as much as I am, and I'm just as sure we're not alone in this. Why can't we just go back to the way it was before? Simple and peaceful...

Albert: This isn't the past anymore,Earl. Things change. You've changed, and I've changed too. Life's rolled us some bad dice rolls. But you know what? This is all part of life; part of reality.

Earl: ...

Albert: Earl, let me ask you a question, and try to answer even if you aren't sure if it's correct.

Earl: I'm all ears.

Albert: If there was a drink out there that truly signified that you have matured, what would it be?

Earl: ...I don't know.

Albert: It's this simple cup of coffee. Life is tough, Earl, we all know that. This nice cup of coffee that everyone drinks every single day reminds them that very fact; life is bitter, life is hard. This bitterness is a simple reminder that reality just isn't the sweet life that kids and teens dream of, Earl. Take a sip.

Earl: ...it's bitter indeed, but there's a slight tinge of...

Albert: Sugar, isn't it? That's the thing. That's the little bit of sweetness inside that tells you not to succumb. Not to succumb to the world outside, the pains of reality that always try to bog you down. It's telling you to make sure that you remember the ups along with the downs in this roller coaster of life. Because among all that bitterness, there's just that small bit of sweetness that makes life bearable, perhaps even enough to enjoy. But you can't add too much sugar either. The coffee becomes too sweet and its flavour gets ruined. Maybe life has changed for the worse, Earl. It probably has. But it's the small traces among everything that truly make this cup of coffee what it really is. And guess what? It's incidentally this cup here that gives just the energy to pass through the day. Ironic, isn't it?

Albert: ...you want another sip?

Earl: ...I think I will.

Sniping for the Bullseyes

The squad lined up in one straight line to receive the reports for their latest training exercise. As with traditional report receiving procedures, names are not used, just a bunch of numbers on a tag given to you (Not that I wasn't used to it, of course. After all, I've been doing this for more than three years already.)

"298!" And I went up to get my report. And all I saw was a bunch of statistics. All that made no sense, however, until one actually knew other information pertaining to the bunch of numbers on that piece of paper. That 77 points out of 100 for marksmanship could very well have been the lowest out of the squad, and that 70 for assembly could have been higher than any other recruit in the whole platoon. Irregardless, whatever these marks represented, they couldn't have been too bad - I was, after all, in pretty much the best squad in the whole platoon.

My thoughts had been interrupted by the sergeant giving statistics. He started off by giving the platoon averages, and with each average released my face smiled just a slight bit more. I had definitely done decently in the whole platoon, probably being above average in a majority of all the aspects of the training exercise. Then came the squad averages.

"The average for marksmanship in this squad is 84 out of 100. We would like to further applaud 286 and 287 for scoring perfect shots at 100, having all shots dead center and zoomed in right on the head. There's also 304, 284, 297, 300, 306, and 292, each managing to shoot 9 perfect runs and almost perfecting the 10th." And to think the platoon average was 67.

The numbers no longer brought a smile to my face. I didn't do a single thing that wasn't outshined by more than half of my squad mates. Not a single thing.

"SOC averages were at 16 minutes for one round. Congrats to 304 and 297 for clearing the SOC in the fastest two timings, 13:47 and 14:12 respectively." I looked down on that paper. 19:32. The pass was 18. The next guy after me got 17:12. I bent my head down slowly, hands covering over my eyes.

304. Johnson. We called him Lil' J.O. and that's what we stuck with. A child of a genius, and one heck of a genius of a child. One of the more immature people around normal camp life, but look at him on the SOC and devil's barely the word for it.

297. Good Ol' Mike. An Asperger's, but that guy's an iron man when it comes down to anything. He can shoot, run, march, assemble and repair, and beat most up at hand-to-hand.

299 came over and leaned on my shoulder.

"Hey, what happened, Err? Doesn't seem like you're too happy about something."

The younger of the pair of Jacks. Not that they were called such, of course; their names just started with J. Both were slightly on the plump side (and no doubt as jolly as expected), and while one was expectedly slow on the SOC, somehow the other could only be beaten by those who were very fit. Young Jack here happened to be the fast one.

"Not much lah, J. Just screwed up my SOC big time. Look at this. 19. You think anyone here beat that?"

"Oh come on. Zack's 17:34 run got 10th place in the platoon. I'm sure the course was just far more difficult this year."

"Fancy hearing that. Maybe the other one, J, but it's not comforting and reassuring hearing that from you."

Lil' John came over with his good buddy Kev. Both children at heart, but both insanely good at whatever they do. "Hey, Err, come on. Don't look so down. At least the thing's over, right? There's always next time, and there's also the block leave. Just take it easy and take a break, ya?

"You go ahead and do that. I've got explaining to do to others where you don't. So just leave me alone, John." And that's what he did.

"Hey, Err. How were your scores? You know, it feels quite weird? I have a bunch of 80s and a bunch of 60s, it's almost as if I do well on one and horrendous on the other." Not the most sensitive child to have inside your heart, Kev.

"Well, at least you did well overall, I guess. Isn't that what counts?" I forced a smile back, and sadly his sincere smile in reply to mine was not something I deserved in any way whatsoever.

I looked around again. X (After all, Alex never took a liking to alcohol) was sitting there completely silent and pretty much serious, almost like me. Except I knew that he probably did well and was just planning on what he had to do during the next week or so. The other Jack was at the other corner, talking to Mike about how they screwed up the theory and assembly tests. Unc' Sam, the big bro of the squad, being the usual joking self he is and cheerfully chatting to the mates around him.

And I didn't get it. I couldn't get it. How? I wish the question had been how they did it, but I knew secretly that such a question could never be answered in a way that benefited me. They were just better. Every single one of them. The best marksman, the best SOC run, the best assembly time, the best theory knowledge; every single one comes from cadets from this squad. And possibly the second and third too.

And there was me, a man above the platoon but hopelessly below the squad. What's a normal man to do in a league of extraordinary gentlemen? I was hopelessly lost. And just as incapable of ever being able to shine from the squad. Not from the pair. Not from Lil' John or his buddy Kev. Not from Good Ol' Mike. Not from Unc' Sam. Not from X. Was I supposed to be sidekick to so many superheroes?

"Hey, J, y'know with all these scores we're getting, we could go and rename ourselves the Elite Squad. ES in short. Now wouldn't that be cool?"

"Come on, Sam. We already heard of this before. And you know what the sergeants are like. But yeah, it would be cool. Everyone here, a member of the Elite Squad. That sounds cool. It would be really cool."

It would.

Momo and Innocia

Momo: Innocia, let me show you something.

Innocia: What is it?

Momo: This room. Look at how their dinnertime is like.

Innocia: They're all on beds. They're all in white. But only half of them are eating. What's this place?

Momo: A place of trial. One that either makes or breaks a person.

Innocia: How disturbing. But is this not the same as the world outside? Is life not in itself a crash course in pain that we all have to go through?

Momo: The line between pain and pleasure is blur, Innocia. Some may very well cling onto that pain if it could bring them something.

Innocia: You still didn't answer me. What's so special about this room?

Momo: Simple. This is the painless world. And everyone in this room has the choice of bringing pain back into their lives or keeping pain out of their lives.

Innocia: ...that's not much of a choice. Why would anyone pick the former?

Momo: Would you?

Innocia: I don't see why not.

Momo: Over there is a drink, Innocia. You can drink it and eternally sleep. Would you want to?

Innocia: ...I see.

Momo: This room is a mere reminder to these tenants that thy time and thy will are in eternal jeopardy.

Innocia: No mere reminder can send people to seek for the reaper.

Momo: Yet I, such the reaper dressed in white, am here. How then do people go about everyday life so ignorant that they need this reminder? Simple - They are always aware of this fact. They just reject the path given to them. They choose not to follow the rose-ridden road to the rapture of the reaper, the receding requiem. Instead they live, with their ups and downs.

Innocia: Then why would they seek you?

Momo: Why? It is simply because I am there to remind them of the rose-ridden road when they hit the end. To remind them that there is a single clear path, and everywhere else is but thorned temptations.

Innocia: I sincerely pray that those who follow you are few in number.

Momo: As do I. But there shall be those who accept absurdity, and I have my job to do.

Feceof and Idlea

Feceof: Idlea! What's someone like you doing here? No one's in the cafe, dear. Why is an activist such as you here of all places, drinking coffee and biding your time? Do you not have people to follow you? Hundreds of trails of footsteps to go behind your path? What travesty has happened? How is it that the leader is here but the supporters are gone?

Idlea: Honestly, Feceof, I do not know. I sincerely wish as much as you that they either be in this cafe or with me. But they are neither.

Feceof: Indeed. Why are they not with you, but not with me either? It intrigues the mind.

Idlea: Simple. Times have changed, Feceof. The windowpanes of the city buildings have not met starlight in recent years. People are governed neither by themselves nor by the governance. They are governed by desire, senseless desire; desire that wishes to overrule the self, desire that wishes to overwhelm the idealistic, desire that wishes to seep one's life eternally into mindlessness. They are people, Feceof, they are. But they are mere human puppets, slave to obedience rather than to passion and compassion. Just as they have no will to follow me, they have no reason to be here.

Feceof: Alas, what is it that has caused such a gigantic change?

Idlea: It is their society. Look at their adults. They live in a world of mere needs and wants, nothing more. What they need they take, and what they want they earn. There is zero tolerance for the unexpected, be it good or bad - they do not want to be hindered nor overly reliant. Their next 5 minutes are planned out to the minutest detail, and any speck of dust that dare get in their way get nothing less than the coldest shoulder. They have no need for this cafe anymore, Feceof - this cafe is for people to chance upon, for people to relax, for people to appreciate the trivialities of life. Just as they are too preoccupied with the next detail to come here, they are too centered in themselves to listen to the speeches of anyone else, not even me.

Feceof: Is that not just the adults? I do not see how those whose lives are not centered around cash can live so similarly.

Idlea: Just look at them, Feceof! They aren't even grown up to be individuals! Look at that, every single bit of that child belongs to the institution! Clothes! Badges! Accessories! Socks! Stationery! Even 'fashionable things' like wristbands come from the institution! Look at that group of people walking outside. What are they doing? They're not talking to each other. No, Feceof, those aren't leisure books. That's not intellectual pursuit. That's the exact same book every other person has. And that's no bible either - it gives twenty questions for each answer they have. Look at that. Would a child who is ripped of individuality grow up to be an individual in the future? No. He will grow up to be a group. One in the generation of youth that will grow up the same way as the present has. One that doesn't need me, nor you.

Feceof: Isn't that too extreme a view, Idlea?

Idlea: Am I?

Feceof: Certainly. Perhaps I am past my time, but you can still be followed by the youth. There will eternally be those who seek you, Idlea, just as there will eternally be regulars in this place. It is tough, but you have to persevere. There are those who still laugh, those who still feel annoyance, those who still want to go against the flow. They need you - no, you need them, Idlea. And when you do so, they will have hope. They will fight hard to survive as themselves. They will have others following in their footsteps. And when they tire out, I will be here to serve them the best drink they'll ever have. I need you, Idlea. And more importantly, you need them. Now go.