The Study: Dismissed

Many years, enough to notice new definition in my hands, had gone by since I left Japan and Maki. Although it didn't feel like it at the time, some big changes had taken place. I had a new girlfriend now, one I kept around for convenience sake, but I rarely told her the truth about anything and she rarely cared to listen. She prepared me three meals a day though and always worse crispy white outfits that I was quite fond of. My memories of Japan were fading and each day I regretted more and more my inability to properly document the trips I took. I always too caught up in the moment to take pictures. The most in depth I ever got was a shot out of the plane window, maybe a few hotels I stayed in and then one or two mediocre attractions. Out of all my time in Japan, I only had one corner of a shoebox worth of photos, and only one was any good. I remember the night, it was after we ditched the bikes, we were running low on money so instead of taking the Shinkansen we took a bus. From the outside the bus looked no different than your average Greyhound, but on the inside it was spliced into two levels. When walking down the aisle, it was necessary to crouch like a primate and waddle to your seat. We were stuck on the bottom level, sat in a row between two Africans and the bathroom. They reclined their seats low, lower then I expected them to recline and their heads rested right above our laps. We went to recline our chairs, to escape the claustrophobia, but the damn bathroom wall refused to let us pass. Maki was able to slouch down enough to get her legs under the seats in front of us, and although it was uncomfortable to sit like this, she had at least found solace from the gigantic shiny heads. I was too large for this. I couldn't slide myself between the reclined chair and my own chair and so I was forced to stay in place with a stranger in my lap and my own head brushing the partition above me. Maki fell asleep somewhere in the 8-hour ride, I tried, but it was no use. We reached our destination, Kamakura, and waddled out of the bus rapidly to stretch and breath and curse the inventor of that thing. In our dishevelment, Maki handed off her Polaroid to a passerby and he snapped a shot of us in the night, under the moon, with the hoods of our sweatshirts shadowing our eyes and only leaving enough light to see our smiles. This was the one good picture I had of Japan. As I sat there staring at our faces, the way we smothered each other with our bodies and put so much effort into showing our affection for one another, it dawned on me that this wasn't true love. In my solitude I'd proclaim that it was, but only because another like her hadn't come along. With Maki it was infatuation and it wasn't unhealthy. She meant a lot to me and the only reason I make this distinction is to vocalize what this has taught me. Namely, true love doesn't breed inspiration. When you are truly in love with another, and they with you, you feel whole, satisfied like you have always just eaten the perfect amount and you crave no more. When infatuated, you binge and purge in the most passionate way and while some would view this as a sickness, I'd say it’s more of a progression. This infatuation inspired me to become who I am, and in who I am I feel full. I wrote her a letter that night that and when it came back someone else had already read it. The envelope was torn open and the pages had thumbprints on them. I found it odd, but the world was odd.

Life went on. I met others, ones who I loved and who loved me back, who saw what I did as the right thing and this was enough for me in one sense. In another sense I always desired the feeling of comfort and protection, the same type I felt under the roof of Masa and Keoki. My life choices had guided me down some very questionable paths and while I felt them to be difficult journeys, I didn't see them as wrong. Nonetheless, at times these journeys would wear on me, the plotting and planning and executions that is, and I'd desire to return to a time and place where I could step away from who I had become. A vacation from myself. As an older man now, a slightly wiser one too, I realized the only place to get away from who I was, was the same place I became conscious of who I was to become. It was time to return to Japan. It was a land of reality and an escape from the dream world I'd been wrapped up in. It was never my intention to work in Japan, but as you already know, a situation came to be that I needed to put under control. I was ignorant to think that any land could be immune from the sickening feeling of numbness that put to sleep the rest of the world. Japan was sleepy too, and like always, it was my job to wake them up. After I shot those people, the idolizers, I expected to feel relieved. I expected to feel free and lofty and able to remove myself to become the observer once more. It was different this time though. I felt watched, I felt held down and even though I saw myself flee the scene, I felt restraints around my wrists and my ankles, and sharp pains in my neck and back. These weren't real though, I refused to recognize them, they made me angry, vulnerable and delusional. My reality was omnipresent, I was everywhere and nowhere and Japan had already shown me who I was. I wouldn’t allow it to change its mind. As hard as I tried to ignore the difference, I’d be a fool to not admit that things were changing. My world was much more contained. For some reason all the walls were the same color and everyone wore white gowns. Trends have always been strange and strong though. Humanity is crazy. After Japan life seemed much more regimented. I'd come in and out of my head on a much more regular schedule and I figured that’s what happens with age. But my associates, some older and some younger and some who never spoke were feeling the same way. Every morning, around eleven, after breakfast and before lunch we'd peak and then retreat within ourselves once more. I felt like I was no longer in control, like someone else was medicating my existence, waking me up and putting me to sleep as I had done to others for so many years. I still felt powerful though, but only in slumber.

I had become unaware of where I was, I called this place Japan because it felt warm and safe, but the people here, the watchers and the watched, all looked liked me. Was this the onset of dementia? Was I really that old? I didn't think so because I was still mobile, able to easily move from room to room and go outside once a day, but every 24 hours I felt like a layer of me was removed. It felt as if my world, the one I had helped create, was peeling away and all that was left were these white walls, some were padded, and these green linoleum floors, and some sterile furniture and a window with a view of a fence. As strange as it may sound, this drastic change of scenery didn't concern me much. As long as my companions were consolidated to the confines of this regimented world, I'd be fine. We could share the visions within our heads and recreate the world before eleven the next day. It was a treat being amongst so many like-minded people. I'm not sure how we came to be here, together, but I found it wonderful that each of us was able to see reality in so many ways other than normal. This was my vision of humanity and after so many decades of working towards it, it has finally come into my sights and it has blessed me with a population of geniuses. It’s lights out now. I feel comfortable. I sleep well.