Between Lives and Identities

The First Conversation

Hell is other people -Jean-Paul Sartre

Prince

Walking into Shimogamo shrine. Kyoto is nothing like the busy city I'm used to. The old trees and wooden buildings tell stories of Japan's past. Tourists are everywhere, but the place still feels calm and peaceful.

The shrine sits among green trees and carefully kept gardens. Every path and corner shows how much people care about this place. It's quiet, even with so many people around. The old buildings and nature make you want to slow down and just look around.

Coming from the city, this place is a big change. Here, you can breathe easily and feel far away from busy streets and noise. The shrine shows how beautiful old Japanese culture can be. It's not just a place to visit, but a place to feel connected to something special to me and achi .

Kyoto is different from other places. It keeps its history alive and shows how nature and old buildings can work together. Shimogamo Shrine is a perfect example of why people love this city so much. Like I do but for a different reason, this is the place where achi or my alter comes to me. This play where our first conversation began.

As I walk, I see tourists wearing kimonos and decide to rent one too. My mind drifts to memories of childhood.

"Achi," I call out in my thoughts, "I want to rent a black kimono, the same one I wore when I was 12 years old."

Achi's voice echoes in my mind, "Do you really think that exact design still exists after all these years?"

I pause, feeling the weight of the fabric as I consider a white and black kimono. "Maybe it's not about the exact design," I reply. "It's about the feeling. The connection to us."

"You're still obsessed with connecting everything to some dramatic narrative," Achi teases, but there's gentleness in his tone.

I smile. "And you're still trying to protect me from feeling too deeply."

The tourists pass by, unaware of the conversation happening in the silent space between my thoughts.

As I put on the kimono, I feel like I'm bridging past and present. "It feels like I'm an anime character now," I say, half-joking.

Achi chuckles, "You and your obsession with manga and anime characters."

I look around, thinking about our unique personality. "What if our story could be told?" I wonder aloud. "Not as we experienced it, but as others might understand it?"

"Fiction," Achi responds, "is often more acceptable than our reality."

I reflect on our journey the isolation, the complexity, the persistent feeling of being outside normal human experience. "We've always been complicated", I say softly.

"That's why I avoided human connections," Achi admits, his voice heavy with years of careful distance. "Because understanding requires more than intellectual analysis. It demands vulnerability."

"Do you think," I ask, the question hanging delicately between us, "we could ever truly belong?"

"Belonging?" Achi responds. "You're asking the wrong question. Humans aren't designed to truly accept what they can't understand. They're designed to categorize, to separate, to protect their fragile sense of sanity."

He pauses, his tone a mix of clinical precision and underlying protection. "You've always been different. Not just different like others claim to be, but fundamentally separate. We have a different perspective as humans. Every perspective is a prison, and humans are both the prisoners and the guards of their own limited understanding."