Rebellion of the Soul

Chapter 7(1): The Quiet Master of the Quaint Village (Act 1)

"Do not become complacent, they said. Always strive for what's best, and never stop looking forward.

Humans are trapped in the delusion that they can become more than what they are. I'm afraid that's not true. Humans will always be humans. If we ever become more than that, we're no longer human. We would be exchanging our humanity in order to evolve into something else."

A lingering shadow hung over a man sat alone in his student apartment. The night was long and dark, mystifying, as the night should be. A lonely lamp stood in the corner, thronging a light that the room was desperately trying to reject. The beams poured over his shoulder, casting onto his notebook – just enough as to not break the solid calm produced by the darkness, which consumed every other remaining space.

He would often do this. Sit alone in his apartment, scrawling away his philosophies and fleeting thoughts onto paper. He never really understood why. Maybe by giving them some sort of solid form, it would make it seem a least partly worthwhile.

He carefully etched his most recent thought onto the page with the care and pace of a calligrapher.

"Humans will never reach truth."

"If we live for the sake of living, then are we simply waiting to die?"

"We think and feel separately. Believing that we can both think about and feel for everything is arrogant."

He slumped back in his desk chair, the faint scuffing of material floating across the room. He adjusted his rectangular glasses on his nose and lifted his watch to his face. Glaring light emerged from the digital numbers leaked into his eyes. 9:55 PM.

Closing his notebook with little sound, he wearily turned his head to look at the label on the cover. It was his name: Yoshimura Shizuo. Nothing else. No topic, no description, no side heading. It was plain and insignificant to the eye. Yet it contained almost years of deep thought.

In a way, this notebook was Yoshimura himself. Swap the two, and not a soul in the world would notice.

He swivelled in his chair, clutching the notebook in his hands. Lifting himself to his feet, he stumbled towards the dresser, placing the notebook in the top drawer beside a number of study manuals, labelled books and other important notes. After hearing the sound of the drawer come to a close, he slumped down in front of the dresser. As expected, the carpet beneath him shifted a few inches forward. After months of being subject to the same movement, it had become loose and could easily be pulled away or slipped on if he wasn't careful.

The chilling breeze signalling the slow descent into a winter's night pelted against his cheek. The window to his right was slightly ajar, causing it to slip through the crack. Not at all bothered to close it, he simply turned to his left and perched his fingertip on the spine of the nearest book he could fine, removing it from the shelf.

He didn't often read physical books. With the selection and ease of reading online, he never really felt the need to pick one from his bookshelf. But on nights such as this, where the prick of winter's sting sneaks all too closely to the mind, the serenity of sitting alone in his favourite relaxation spot with a good book helped to disperse the lingering stagnation that tends to hang about after a few years of college work.

Aside from himself, Yoshimura also lived in his apartment with his roommate: Hazamada. A fellow student of engineering, you would expect the two to have at least enough in common to statute general discussion. But from an honest standpoint, the two were worlds apart, only solidifying his belief that he would never be able to truly connect with anyone. 

Usually, Hazamada could be found drinking at the local bar, or going to singles mixers, in an attempt to cling onto what youth he could before he left the realm of education. Yoshimura would ponder what benefits constant alcohol intake and a subsequent need for a relationship gave to his roommate. He would rather ponder it than ask him himself. He couldn't remember the last time he ever had a normal chat with the person who slept only metres away from his own bed.