Aphorisms and memoirs.

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A production by Deepdream.
I don't own any rights to the characters.
Nor do I accept any payment for this.

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Before anyone does this literary trash, be warned that this story is by no means a mood-enhancer. It is a kind of reflection from the first person perspective and, unlike most typical narratives, is written in prose instead of in the past tense in the presence.

Critical comments, censure and polemics are welcome and will be taken into account in any subsequent works.

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Every moment I see you in my dreams.
There's nothing more like it seems.
I just wanna taste your soft lips.
Can't stand the whole madness when my head rips.

XXXXX

A small, weakly glittering pearl falls to the ground, is lost in the already existing water and becomes one with one of the many puddles that silently surround me like mourners.On the other hand, the wind thunders past me, whispers its heartbreaking melody to me and disappears as quickly as it came. The dark clouds envelop the last signs of the pale sun and leave a deep gray in the firmament, from which it patters down in steady streams. A barrage on the copper-colored roof.
I left them a short letter on wrinkled, gray paper, so that their worries about me may sporadically be sown. Not that I even considered the possibility of seriously adding distress to anyone with my actions. Who would think of me if I disappeared now?

Kasumi maybe while she conjures up one of her wonderful dishes in her small kitchen and thinks, with countless tears, of many and yet far too few cooking disasters.
Nabiki, who knows? Lately she has only been counting her yen, one after the other, forwards and backwards in a monotonous rhythm, lost in thought, and yet found no pleasure in all of her cash.Mr. Tendo will be trapped in his spiritual abandonment of grief for many months, maybe even years. And he will always ask anew where she is right now, whether she's meeting a friend and when she's finally getting married.
As for my own father, he doesn't seem to have fully realized what happened. No wonder how could he? Far too much, the sparse aphorisms of his limited horizon flourished in the fragile illusion of a carefree future.
This obese idiot is just the perfect pattern for the standard man. Blue-eyed in love with habit and its comfort, suspicious of any change in everyday routine. But some corrections of fate cannot be repaired so easily, neither stopped nor corrected, they are after all final. This is then called the destination. A sad word.

Yes, unfortunately, some events are indeed final, as much as this thought hurts me and drives me crazy.The course of life, however, is unalterable, does not allow interference and is not open to any intervention by the weak person. Only events like this let us truly recognize how pathetic we are at the bottom of our hearts and yet always try with amazing tenacity to refute this knowledge. Apparently this is everyone's karma.
However, if we escape or rescue someone de facto from the greedy clutches of death, then one can be certain that the shadowy Grim Reaper will take rigorous action until he nevertheless calls it his own, which he continuously strives for. According to the maxim. If not today, then tomorrow.
Some people probably wonder what I'm talking about here.

The day she's gone.

A song verse that is basically often used, it is intoned so often that, in my opinion, it must have long since lost its true meaning.Why do I write it down here anyway? Aren't the reasons obvious?
Maybe maybe not.
I still remember so much.
Magical moments, full of magic and affection.
Brute arguments, full of violence and anger.
But many days, months and quarters have passed since then.
The snowy white snow fell and covered the land with a thin layer of icing, - her favorite season of the year - a blink of an eye later the bright sun graced the blue sky, the sakura trees bloomed in a touch of magenta and in between the clouds shed their numerous tears out. Do you know what grief is?
Maybe maybe not.
Whatever the case, years fly by and what remains is mostly the brutal reality that snatches you from the colorful dream castles that you once laboriously created. Products of various hopes and imaginations.

My clothes are soaked in the meantime and why?Because of a simple mental monologue that I fought out with myself about the world and its will.
Slowly I go to the dimly lit ticket office. My step is as difficult as it is determined. An unfriendly elderly gentleman takes a critical look at me and a long moment later asks me where I am going.
I patiently tell him my goal, he puffs sullenly, looks with knitted eyebrows into a drawer full of trinkets and pulls out an A4 size card wrapped in foil. His pinched eyes strainedly wander over the individual digits before he briefly turns to me. Without a word, his gaze wanders to the smeared screen of a PC, probably from the late Stone Age, and taps stoically a few times on the gray-dusty keyboard.
A noise disturbing the strange silence sounds in the form of a mechanical rattle and a bluish colored card winds out of a metallic gray printer.I hear the emotionlessly quoted price, feel the pitiless brown of his eyes rest on me, pull my old wallet out of the left pocket of my worn denim jacket and reveal 6800 yen, which a moment later get into the age-marked hands of the treasurer. For some reason I feel sorry for this graying man.
How many tragedies will he have seen? How much suffering is haunted him and how much tears has caused him to despair?
The wisdom of old age goes hand in hand with the deep traces of life. Like wounds, experiences run across the surface of the unshod marble of memory and only heal completely after many decades. However, whether one learns from these injuries is a completely different question.

But despite the fascination of this thought, I turn my back on him and make a pilgrimage to one of the furthest tracks, perceive the rushing and discussion of other people, pass the dark connecting corridors under the rails, in which light - whether natural or synthetic - a precious commodity seems to be, let my dead gaze wander over ancient posters and step out into a dreary and hopeless freedom.The train already seems to be waiting.
I hesitate a moment.
I still have the choice ...
No, I don't even need to tell myself that.
In the truest sense of the word, this train has already left.

Akane died back then, on one of the many bathing trips to the beach, drowned in the wild waters of the sea. My little leaden duck. How did I come up with this nickname? Was it her yellow door sign or her inability to stay above the water? Be that as it is.
This time I was late, now deeply regret it and will be forever, forever.
So what's keeping me here?
Nothing and so I get in, step into the musty wagon and walk to one of the many free seats. The sound of the soles of my shoes on the well-worn carpet reverberates and strangers probe me with disinterest.
I can see a seat near a scratched window. Smeared backrest, torn seat cover, but this place is as good as any other.One last glimpse outside
to a place where nothing holds me anymore
to a place where I spent my youth
to a place where too many thoughts are floating around.
Above all, the voice of a young soul in my ears.

The train jerks into motion and gradually, while my indigo-colored eyes look after the gray roofs of the houses, they get smaller and smaller, finally disappear and thus end an episode of my life.