In front of me, there always is a ceiling. It never falls to me and prevents me from seeing the sky beyond it. It has wholly enveloped the tiny space on my side, where I am now as if it owns this place. Yeah, the thing obstructing my view does not move. It looks as if it insists on its strength by not moving. However, for some reason, I occasionally hear repetitive whispers softly and quietly.
Who is it?
Good boy. Good boy. Yes, what a nice boy you are. Pretty one, you are mine. Smile. Please. How lovely. Beautiful pupils. Nice lips. Smooth cheeks. Please. Smile. Adorable boy. You are mine forever ...
Endlessly, forever, the voice repeats.
Who is whispering in my ear?
Then, the voice is gradually getting huskier, blurs into two layers, and has become just breathing. Before long, the slight quiver of air and only the rhythm are left. Similar to waves lapping against a beach, it has become fine white foam and is sinking into the sand. It vanishes and has been lost. It forgets and has been forgotten. Only the terribly beautiful flatness remains.
It’s sand.
The flatness accumulating around me is sand, isn’t it?
Probably, it is fine sand.
Moreover, it is fine sand.
Words are also sand. They sink and disappear in a moment. It accumulates countlessly and becomes flat. Right. Whatever words they may be, they will vanish more quickly than smoke. A sand hill, which pretends to know nothing, is left. Still, even so, words are a bit kinder. It is much gentler than the cold sensation that the body feels when being touched by a stranger. While hearing words, until they vanish from your ears, even machine gun can keep silent, I guess.
“Bratatat.”
My right thumb touches it gently. The next moment, all my hand muscles, except for the thumb, become tense and put the control stick down as if I tear it apart.
Doing a barrel roll toward left, I have my aircraft inverted.
Have it upward, and bring it back downward immediately.
Keeping it inverted, I start ascending.
As if I were drawn into the outer space.
I am climbing upward endlessly.
Until my thoughts are torn apart.
My body is fastened tightly with the belt like a turkey. My blood has stopped; my breath is skipping. The sky is gradually dyed red and, at the same time, enveloped in the cotton-like darkness.
“Don’t worry. That’s okay.”
A woman’s voice. Who is this?
A warm voice.
But it sounds far away.
Everything about humans is distant.
It is too far to reach me.
The chill that I feel when I touch the canopy is probably the proof.
From everyone else, yes, from the place that is named city and where everyone else lives, I am leaving. From the moment at which I take off from the base, everything becomes a distant place and far distant past. I have come up here alone.
Just alone.
Except me.
There is the sky.
Every existing warmth has already come off me.
In other words, it is the same as the condition in which I no longer live.
Even so, it is laughable.
Do I no longer live?
If I no longer live, why am I thinking about such a silly thing?
Maybe, am I thinking about it even after I die?
Wait a minute ...
To begin with, what am I?
Yes, that’s the question.
Where is this place?
Am I a human?
Is this the planet Earth?
Who am I, by the way?
I do not remember my past. I do not know my future, either. This moment is undoubtedly here. I can touch myself. I believe I can do it. Even an aircraft can move like my body.
But ...
Who am I?
If I open my eyes, I might be able to recall it. I somehow feel so. Like electrons flying in a vacuum, I feel it just for a moment. Probably, I am closing my eyes now. All I can see is just white light. But I do not like the situation if I open my eyes and see the dark ceiling. Compared to it, this pure white brightness is better. This spaciousness is more splendid. I should not care about who I am. Am I wrong? Yes, either way, I am who I am. The problem of who I am is as ridiculous as the matter about the presence of anyone other than me in this world. When no one is around me, it is meaningless to argue about who I am.
Only if I close my eyes, I can think about such a funny thing.
For example, I might be a fetus and not be born yet. Maybe because of the condition, I sense a woman near me. I recognize this pure white world as my mother.
“Oh, now, I understand. It is the reason why the ceiling was dark by that much.”
It is natural for me not to recall who I am. I have yet to become anyone. In other words, whom I will become has not been decided yet.
Interesting.
Where will I be born?
Whom will I become?
By the way, how comfortable this floating feeling is.
Why am I feeling comfortable by this much?
How strange. Why has everyone gotten out of such a comfortable place? I am certain that they are forced to have bitter experiences, just because they are born. I have such a foreboding. Lots of ordeals and cruelly ugly things are waiting for us. We can do nothing but be pushed, beaten, and tainted like oil. Such a life.
It is the act of living, and of surviving.
If so, why do they try to manage to live?
Why do they want to survive?
It is meaningless. Since I am not born yet, it may sound strange, though. Am I wrong? Because I am not born yet, I can understand it calmly. Once I am born, it will probably be too late. I am left with no choice but to live.
Anyway, I have to embrace myself in both hands with the most extreme care, and run this way and that while crying and pleading, “Destroy anything but this,” “Overlook this.” Doing such shameful acts is, in short, the act of living. By observing the world from this location, I can comprehend it well. Probably, the ones who live do not have time to think about such a thing. By the time they notice the fact, they have already been dead a long time ago.
Ah, for some reason, I am beginning to feel sleepy.
Just by thinking, I become sleepy. Thinking must be the same as living half the life and be the act against the nature. I guess, just at the very moment. I live. I am thinking at the moment. In the next moment, my consciousness disappears, and nothing remains. It exists nowhere. When it is born again anywhere else like a bubble, I have already forgotten what I once thought previously. Our lives are such a thing, I suppose.
That’s funny. I mean, we have the word like “life.”
Who came up with the concept?
How incoherent it is.
How unexpected it is.
“I love you.”
It is mysterious. When I hear the phrase, I feel a sense of nostalgia. Maybe, it is the same as a crimson sky. The sky I saw at the lower altitude. I looked down at it.
It was deadly beautiful.
It looked as if they were numerous islands floating on the ocean.
If not, it looked like a mountain range towering above clouds.
It is crimson enough to dye duralumin.
Just by looking at it, I feel the pain in my eyes.
This is the reason why I love something, I think at the moment.
Do I love something because it is beautiful?
Or ...
Does it look beautiful because I love it?
I am not sure. But anyway, I feel the urge to lunge at it. I know it will disappear eventually. That is why I want to touch it just for a moment before the time, before it vanishes. I want to reach for it softly and grab it with my hand. I guess it is the meaning of love. I just imagine so vaguely.
“Hey, wake up. We should be leaving by now.”
The woman’s lukewarm hand touched my face. I was feeling her face approaching me. The smell like that of insecticide. Has she been chewing gum or something? Her lips caressed me. They were lips like creatures in the sea.
As if I were falling, I opened my eyes.
“If you keep on sleeping like that, you will end up waking up at night.”
I raised my head, and looked at a window. It was not so blinding. Is it before dawn? Or, the weather might be bad. If not, does it mean that the concept of weather has disappeared from the world?