Conversations With The Self

The wind brushed through the open window. Flipping pages on the floor. Revealing the cover of one book that said, "Conversations With The Self". The door behind it creaked open half way, as a boy slinked past to scan the room. He spotted the wide open window not too far from where he stood, but before him were empty cup noodles, chip wrappers, soda cans and bottles, doujinshi with some yaoi, manga, random papers with sketches and writings, pencils, pens and erasers, magazines peaking through with boxers on stacked light novels beside two video game consoles and a body pillow of a half-naked anime woman on top of a closed laptop.

"Big brother wouldn't want me to intrude with his own duties." the boy fiddled with his fingers.

He averted his eyes and saw half emptied book shelves whose content spines were varied through thick and thin. Some were in Japanese or Korean, others were in English and some foreign languages the boy could name each and every one of at this distance. There were two monitors nearby a drawing tablet at the desk, behind it were posters of anime art and digital paintings among the walls, small statues and figurines of characters from varied franchises the boy skimmed by. He fixated his eyes at the framed picture of a boy then gave a little smile at his narrow faced brother with square rimmed glasses beside it. When he tiptoed closer he couldn't help but look at the reflection of what society deemed "beautiful" of a boy. Effeminate and soft, striking and ideally fictional. Yet so small it had to stand upright while his brother knelt down for him. When compared to what he looked like now, the boy didn't emulate the same child-like smile. If you didn't gaze from afar and peered closer, his face had matured into an even greater beauty, his dark eyes sullen from how you had just looked at him.

The boy flinched, shuddering at the feeling of ramen soup on his feet, he flicked his leg in the air and the substance spilled on the bed, and at the blankets.

"Dammit, Akira."

Akira cocked his head to the raspy, deep groan and saw the bright colored sheets roll from the wall. Revealing a chunky faced brother whose demeanor emitted a depressing rebound. "Just take one thing without messing up my stuff and go."

"Sorry, big brother." Akira bowed, one foot lifted up behind him. "By the way, you're window's open."

"Just close it for me, please."

"Will do." Akira shut it gently, hearing a rushing mini truck before it completely disappearing. While making his way back, he saw a book in front of the door. It was all colored in black, except for the white text written on its cover. "Did you finish this one, too?"

"Which one?" his brother's muffled voice asked.

"I haven't seen this one before," Akira picked it up. "The title says . . . uh— Hm. I can't seem to understand it yet, big brother."

The man rose up, rubbing and blinking his eyes at the novel Akira stretched for him to see while he put on his glasses, leaning forward into view. A bit confused by how it was clearly in English, Akira's brother said it anyway,

"Ah, that means 'Conversations With The Self'. I must have bought it by accident." he took off his glasses and rolled back in bed. "I haven't read it yet, but it doesn't seem too explicit. You can read it, little brother."

"Thank you. Don't sleep too much and keep doing this, or it will affect your health and Mom will nag at you again." Akira slowly began closing the door, eyeing short glances at the dark book on his hand, "Also, brother—"

"Yeah, yeah . . . Leave my room and I'll clean it up . . . "

"Good luck with that." Akira closed the door.

Outside it was labeled "PARK KANEDA".

Akira turned the book on its back and raised his eye brows, seeing Japanese characters. And Korean at the same time. And English . . . including other languages that seemed to mix while making sense to him simultaneously. It made his face contort further by how he was able to read out, "A teenager that often talks to himself journeys across worlds within his mind." even whenever he looked at the title it seemed like a far more intricate Chinese he's never seen before. The rest of the synopsis were incomprehensible, much to his further confusion. Akira soon went across the hall toward a door that was labeled "PARK AKIRA" and made his way on his half empty desk with school papers and school supplies, a half empty water bottle, and some textbooks at the sides.

Akira turned to the first page.

"5/6/21 2:36 PM

"The bridge between reality and conscience reality is great.

"Sometimes I even mistaken online conversations with Denise as an actual materialized memory by how I know her responses so well, just to support myself. But is it truly a fact which occurred if such incidents only happened inside your head in contrast if it had happened in "reality"? The Bible seems to warn that it is possible to commit sin even whilst thinking about it. So had an event truly happened if it was all just "in your head"? Aren't our senses ignited by our brain? So why then?

"Fucking dammit.

"Conscience reality, although comforting is jack shit if you ought to actually do it now.

"Just earlier while washing dishes I thought about "expressing my thoughts onto paper" for the sake of my sanity to maintain its composure against my anxiety.

"I should stop cursing.

"Although it could be a "reactionary relief" as Viisauce prolly put it, I don't think it's much of a positive thing either.

"I always tell off my thoughts in real life. Which worked, but it's only filler action if my self doubts and negative reminiscence only keep coming back for more. I was afraid I would waste paper if I wrote, or storage if I typed, because I know I could just sort these thoughts in my head if I tried. But there's a difference between reality and conscience reality. And crossing that bridge ultimately affects both worlds. "What should I do?" is always a question. "Keep going. Keep moving" is always an answer. It's so simple. It's so complicated.

"Announcing to myself that I'd do this and that; what's the point if I don't even finish them?

"And what's the point of doing this and that if I don't even encourage myself to?

"What do I want to do? I'd put a list of things.

"They'll either add up but only get rid off after a forever.

"Still, I'd have to "try", right?

"Fine.

"I'd like to write novels, stories, books.

"I'd like to draw comics, illustrations, and animations.

"I'd like to sing my songs, covers; voice act, narrate, and socialize.

"I'd like to dance.

"I'd like to change myself and the world for the better, or at least encourage it.

"I'd like to be significant.

"We're getting too abstract here....

"What's the point of typing all that?

"I don't have to feel anything. I just have to "do".

"Even if it's all in my head, there's still an underlying need to transfer those thoughts into movements to reality. Only then will it be "real", is that what this is supposed to mean?

"I hate that I feel nothing.

"I hate that I don't mind.

"I don't mind that I hate myself.

"I don't mind that I don't know.

"I don't know why I don't mind.

"I don't mind that I don't care.

"I was supposed to write the [redacted]. Where [redacted] gets [redacted] from a [redacted]: [redacted].

"What does she teach? Am I procrastinating?

"I haven't written any new words for nearly a week now.

"I'm also drawing for a comedic animation for my U2be channel starring my [redacted] and the Berzerk opening.

"I also planned on a progressive political essay comparing the meanings of two parties—which recently included a rap solo on top of its animation by me after listening to a phenomenal "lofi" beat.

"I must be doing so many things.

"I don't mind. I don't like it. I don't hate it. I don't love myself. I don't hate myself either. I'm the person I love the most in the world. I'm also the person I hate the most in the world.

"What even is my problem?

"I like chasing after my passions. It is a bit troubling I have so many. It's troubling I have the ability to do more. So now I have to do them.

"It's troubling.

"Should I be saying that? I'm not convincing myself it's troubling. I'm just saying it like it is.

"Is it good to feel neutral all the time?

"I don't want to bother any philosophical answers anymore.

"What should I do next?

"I might be overwhelming myself.

"I don't have to edit this journal entry.

"I don't have to read back. There isn't really a need.

"I see this as a part of a book, one of many.

"But fucking hell, don't bother reading back it's just a thought dump to clear your head.

"Bother revisiting these thoughts and it's a waste of time when you could be doing your work.

"Fuck school, let's not talk about that right now.

"Whatever, I know you finished all your school work, except mostly Math, but school isn't my entire life so bugger off.

"I should just stop.

"Writing the novel right now?

"Draw visuals for animation?

"I want to sleep.

"It's 2 already...

"I'm picking ciesta.

"Let's worry later and rest fucking now.

Scanning the chapter in his head Akira thought, "Was the author still a student when they wrote this?" His eyes sparkling, "Is this going to be just their thoughts? I wonder what they'll think about next." He turned the next chapter.

"5/8/21 4:16 PM"

Akira raised his eyes to the alarm clock lit by his desk lamp. It ticked 4:16 PM. He looked back to the book with slightly narrowed eyes, opening and sipping from his black water bottle. His stare unwavering.

"Why am I still here. I thought I wanted to do this. I thought I'd enjoy writing. But do I have to enjoy anything in the grand scheme of things? At the very least, why can't I be content? Am I depressed again? I've been getting sudden heart aches like I did a few years ago. There was an instance some night before, where the squelching, wrenching feeling in my chest lasted longer than I had expected—I thought my heart would explode. I swear, I'm not sad. I'm not depressed. I shouldn't be. Why am I getting these symptoms? It is heartbreak syndrome, right? Maybe. Maybe I am depressed again. Am I going to die suddenly without me giving what I wanted for this world?"

Akira's face was silent, he flipped to the next page.

"I'm the one leading myself to these thoughts. I'm the one putting a cloud over my head. And even if I think of nothing, I'd equally feel empty instead. After a series of "short term happinesses" I'd fall to the realization of my weak attempts to escape reality. Another shallow phase where I contemplate what I've done. The time I've spent. The work I could have made. The person I could have been.

""As long as you're happy you didn't waste time", it's not about being happy. It's about doing what is right. One could be happy committing a crime against humanity. Is that time spent acceptable? I'd argue that sometimes we lie and try to convince ourselves we are happy inside. Is that fraudulent happiness considered "happiness", then? Words can only go so far to describe what is too sophisticated for even our minds to accurately fathom. If those far more equipped with wisdom and experiences were both burdened by such things and gifted by such things, is ignorance truly bliss if they are comforted against what is "real and Truthful"? Is the Truth even that "good", if we're just too human to accept that the Divine Holy Beings outside of our mortal comprehension have so much a higher standard that even attempting to grasp such concepts already leaves us to existentialist depression?"

Akira closed the book for a bit to chronologically imagine each of the sentences in the order he's just read, before continuing and reopening the book.

"Ah, fuck. My Homeroom adviser, who is also my Math teacher, is reminding me to get another Math homework, which I'm not even going to do. It's similar to having me read philosophy books that make me question everything about my life more than I can live, whilst knowing I skipped children's literature because I was illiterate. We're still on the numbers x alphabet type a shit and I know school's just gonna KEEP ON raising the stats without ever letting me finish tutorial."

Akira nodded with closed eyes.

"But I'm not a graduate of whatever Ph.D. I have to show off, not an old person with "the experience" nor especially someone with all that Capitalist money just to express I have the ultimate right to tell you off your ass, aren't I? If the world was spiraling into a zombie apocalypse would you kick me out and add me to the ever increasing walking dead just because I couldn't provide help to you now, instead of helping me cope with the situation so I could fucking help you later? If the world was slowly dying because of the worsening climate ignored by us who are more concerned with working for the economy because Capitalism has made us more reliant on money, do you think the best option for humanity's survival is to conform to Capitalist society? Instead of taking a step back and executing a well thought out initiative to prevent our fucking extinction? With brilliant and lacking minds in tandem towards this general ideal, to move on to a newer system more suited for the present times, as well as our varied generation?

"Fuck. We're all idiots. We're all stopping ourselves from improving with each other. We're all trapped under Capitalism, and it's been so long that anything outside that is too "idealistic" or "unrealistic" bleh bleh bleh. How wise of you! Should we distract ourselves, then? Should we continue to succumb ourselves with short term happinesses until we're all killed by our abundance of ignorance? Because we refuse to make the most with each other, WITH EACH OTHER, out of what we already have?"

Akira heard faint sizzling, something within him resonating. His eyes lingered a bit on the shelf where he expected a leather bound book.

"This book isn't something general audiences might typically "enjoy"." he read on. "It's not particularly for entertainment. Everything is straight out of my conscious vagina to defuse my "real life" persona. Are you still here? You're still reading me? Oh, I'd be surprised but I'm indifferent. Still, that's nice to hear. I thank you. You're pretty smart if you understood what I've been saying."

The coming texts were non-existent.

"That's it?" Akira blinked and flipped the next pages, but all of them were blank and empty. "How did this pass publishing?"

A woman's voice called downstairs, "AKI!!"

Akira closed the lamp light and his head peeked through the door before closing it. He followed the smell through the stairs and to the kitchen. His tall older brother transferring cooked food to the table arranged with plates, glasses and utensils; shoulder length hair still a mess of black strands, while he wore a light pink apron with a Nyango Starr image drumming at a children's concert, over his long sleeved pajamas.

"The rice is cooked," Akira's brother said.

Akira hummed nodding and took three serving bowls to the rice cooker with a rice spatula. The woman rose up from the couch and left her bag there, wearing a suit and tie with house slippers. Her I.D. said "S Highschool", "Teacher", "Yuu Park". She meandered towards Akira scraping white rice and leaned down to kiss him on the head before heaving a long sigh as she sat at the table. They ate dinner in silence.

"Kaneda, any progress with your work?" Yuu finally asked Akira's brother.

"My last work sold well about some thousands of copies," Kaneda replied. "The sequel has an average amount of demand but things have been pretty steady that the E Company doesn't complain as much as before to me about."

"Alright, that's fine." Yuu took a bite. "You're doing your best, so keep rolling! Just don't end up like Miku. But you better have had cleaned your room. You've been getting chubbier again, too."

Kaneda drank some water. "I did. And I am aware of that, mother." 'Let me be.'

"Mom, how was work?" Akira said through munches, a rice grain sticking on his chin.

"Same as always." their mother pointed at the rice with her own chin and Akira noticed. "Just reviewing future lessons and evaluating student homework."

"Okay." Akira picked off the rice and swallowed it with the rest.

"How has school been?" she asked.

"High grades. I don't have . . . close friends, you could say." Akira said before adding, "I don't think I want friends anyway."

Kaneda glanced at his brother thinking of a lanky boy with glasses.

"What about Kusanagi?" Yuu raised a brow. "She's in the same school as you, don't you two still hang out?"

"I guess . . . " Akira muttered before reverting to silence.

"That's okay." Yuu took more fried fish and added to her plate with green vegetables. "But you'll eventually need to connect with more people. Other than Kusanagi—your brother and I, we're too old and busy—"

"You're the oldest one here, mom." Kaneda interrupted.

"You've already passed the age when I've given birth to you." Yuu hissed before composing herself to Akira. "You have to find other young people your age at least, Aki. But be sure they make you grow as a person."

Akira saw her simper and he smiled a bit in return.

He thought of a young girl half a feet taller than him, a taller guy, and one in the middle wearing glasses. "Would I consider them my friends?" The thought slipped through him as fast as it came.

Yuu and Akira exchanged their goodnights and headed straight for their rooms. Akira shortly refilling his water bottle beforehand as Kaneda stayed by the sink with the dishes, whistling "an artist" by TK from Ling Tosite Sigure. When Akira got back through his door he paused at the the lamp light still open. 6:43 PM. He placed the water bottle down and saw the fully answered homework papers with neatly written notebooks, Akira skimmed through them, then checked his desk after sorting them through. 7:28 PM. He put aside the Black Book on his shelves of school textbooks, a flashlight, a few notebooks, journals, shounen comics and magazines, Japanese novels with bookmarks halfway finished, all of which were organized according to height, width, color and category. Then he took a bath.

7:32 PM. Akira brushed his teeth while drying his hair with a warm towel, he put on pajamas and stretched, then finally went to bed. He had with him a flashlight and a half read Japanese novel. The clock ticked 7:59 PM. Akira saw, he returned the two items back on their previous spots from the shelf then went to turn off the desk lamp before flattening himself in bed.

Click.

8:00 PM.