HYOGO / DEC 2013
posing in bondage: japanese breakfast
How far does the skin go to protect the bone?
Understanding the logic as stretched by science is the opposition to emotional morality, and it can be a distastefully wrought feeling that displaces each spectrum of the brain itself. The notion that the skin, an otherwise loose coating that shields the blood, the molecule, the bone can be something that is stretched, but remains in tact like rubber becomes an afterthought to Suna. How is it that he has spent years, behind the skin, behind the eyes, and behind the bone, so comfortably without worrying about the skin collapsing on top of him?
The thought makes him want to retreat into his rib, wherein the formation of his vessel lay bearing. He stops from cowering back into the gilded cages shielding the arteries. Could it be nature's sick sense of morality that fuels the skin's unconscious need to be selfless? Or, by logical sense, does the skin truly have no other motive? He understands it wasn't by choice that the skin was placed onto the bone?
Suna wonders with an outline of apprehension during the calm quietness of a boisterous winter's evening. This forethought plagues the walls of his mind as his hands take refuge within the pockets of his jeans. If, by chance, one day his skin decides to loosen into a blackhole on top of the spectre of his being, will his bones be able to forge a house for his vessel? The concept of selflessness by nature hurts his brain to comprehend — thoughts like those often made his brain tug into knots, which is why he usually prefers to quietly dissect volleyball motions rather than the eternal discussion of how eager the skin goes to protect the bones.
But then he wonders, doesn't the concept of selfless nature comply to volleyball as well? At its core, it comes down to the survival of the fittest doesn't it? Only the lucky ones get to live far, tough fucking luck to those with the short end of the stick. Yeah, that sounds about right, Suna thinks. He wonders back to when he was 10, a gap-toothed boy holding in his breath as his parents started shouting, 10pm on a Friday night. He's lucky, real fucking lucky. It's a normalcy of some sorts, isn't it? Though the fighting never ceased, he was never smacked up, cut-up, or fucked-up in any way shape or form, he was fine — just fine.
It was just a thing of life, a burden he bore but not a real enough burden to be spoken about.
Then, he shivers, October's cold crawling up the ridges of his spine like a shadow in the night. He's gone mad. Volleyball is not about selfless nature, how cruel he must be to equate the inner turmoils he carries on his shoulder to a sport that bases around quality teamwork with a group of people that have a similar goal in mind. He sees it every day, in every court, in every ball, in every team jersey he's ever worn. The apple core that sprouts a beautiful victory lies within the captain, and it travels to all the players.
Kita Shinsuke's cool steely eyes makes a second shiver sneak up on him, he sees the captain in all his robotics, determination and passion screaming inside the visceral layers of his eyes. Play to win. Win... Win or what?
Winning, he shivers once again. It's probably not the thought of winning that sets his skin into an icy glaze, the cool winter's air at 6.30 in the morning does not relent for Suna Rintarou. He hasn't realised within all his existentialist psychology that time does not wait for him. He's supposed to be at the school gym by now, and usually, he'd be one of the last few there, but at the rate he's going, he's going to be the very last. There was an unspoken understanding, an unspoken rule that must be abided thoroughly each and every practice.
Though their practices are usually said to start at 7AM, each and every team member must be there at least 30 minutes before said practice time, and for the most of the year, Suna has been very good at following that rule. He wasn't the best at keeping routines like Kita, but at least he tries to make it there before the Miya twins. Which isn't honestly the best thing in the world, seeing as though they are stupidly passionate but terrible at keeping their time managements steady.
