Work Text:
I can’t keep this up forever.
It’s a startling realisation. But once he’d rolled it around in his mind for a while, mulling it over, he was surprised that he hadn’t realised before. It was obvious; one day he would have to stop. Everyone had to stop eventually.
“I can’t keep this up forever,” his voice broke as he tested how the words felt said out loud. The way his voice croaked from lack of use since… long enough ago that it’s not an easily placed memory, reminded him of how long it had been since he’d spoken to anyone or even left his apartment.
But he was aware that he spoke to himself during his frenzied surge of ideas that he could never remember so at least his voice got used. It was like he was in a trance that could last hours or days and he’d wake up without a recollection of the passage of time and pages and pages of work finished.
And since it got his work done, he couldn’t complain if he could barely remember anything from the past year.
Days past in the same routine. No - Lack of routine. And he wouldn’t say days either. He couldn’t divide his life into days as the rest of the world did because, unlike the people who focused their lives on more selfish goals, he worked until he passed out; not until he was tired.
He had to work, he couldn’t understand those who were placid in their laziness, because what else would he do? Nothing, he had nothing else but his work.
He made anime that swam around people’s minds, characters who pulled at heartstrings and endings that could bring the sturdiest man to tears. His animation might be able to touch lives! At least, he hopes so.
So he won’t stop because if he stops then he’s powerless and he’s failed. He won’t stop! He wouldn’t even stand a chance at affecting people then.
But what if he does? What if he stops animating in desperate bursts of conscience, starts living a normal life where he takes the time to entertain trivial things such as eating and sleep; would he still be able to reach out to people, make the apathetic feel, the lonely comforted?
No.
If he did that then he’d just be a random animator (nothing special, barely worth mentioning), he’d lose his dedication.
And what if he ran out of time? What if he spent all of his time in waiting rooms and bus-stops, family gatherings and social function and neglected his responsibility?! He’d never make a sound in a world of screaming people. He’d never make a dent.
I can’t keep this up forever.
He pinches himself, a method he’d stumbled upon to drag his unfocused thoughts out of another existential crisis or at least to quiet them to a dull roar so that he can continue animating in the meantime.
When had it become night, how long had he been sitting on the floor of his empty apartment as he wasted time dwelling on his existence and on the fact that he hadn’t finished reaching his goal yet?
However long he’d been sitting (probably hours but he didn’t want to put a figure on it and confront how much time he’d wasted), it was long enough that the moonlight from the window was bathing the room in an eerily pale glow and that the shadows of the scantily furnished room were long and menacing.
He glanced back at the window. There was a perfect view of the stars, a rare occurrence considering he lived in a bustling city, and he felt the intense desire to continue reflecting on his life again. Perhaps it was because of all of the anime that he’d seen when lonely as a child where the main character looked up at the night’s sky and felt miniscule and then had some sort of predictable epiphany.
Perhaps filling the role of an anime character would help him with the creative block that he was suffering from or perhaps not but it was still worth giving it a try. Once he returned to his animating he’d get consumed for hours and would miss his chance to see the stars until the next time the weather and his consciousness coincided on a cloudless night so he should make the most of the opportunity. And, besides, anytime he wasted could easily be made up for by taking a caffeine pill or two and working for longer afterwards.
He rested his arms on the window ledge and gazed out.
It’s true, he thought, I really do feel miniscule.
The stars were preserved in everlasting glory, untainted by human misery and despair, only to be admired by the likes of him. And it made him feel suffocated, like the ceiling was closing in on him and he couldn’t escape. Because matter how hard he worked, he’d never be like the stars: gloried and untainted by misery, he was insignificant in the workings of things.
So he’ll keep working until he dies and nothing, not even the beauty of the stars can stop him.
And beyond the stars, there is nothing; no-one to care for him and no-one to stop him from working himself to death. But then again, there is no-one to stop him closer to home, which is the reason why his lifestyle had gone so long undetected and hadn’t met him with an intervention yet. There wasn’t a person alive who would blink an eye if he were to disappear randomly one day – Not even his parents.
The stars are the only constant spectator to his declining health, he is dying but that doesn’t mean he has an excuse to stop, but burning balls of flames and fire, light-years away couldn’t help him – Couldn’t save him from himself.
I can’t keep this up forever.
A memory stirs and his stomach lurches.
Sure, the stars were beautiful and such a romantic clique but they’re dead, cold lumps of rock that haven’t truly been alive, radiating light, for a very long time. So many of them had burnt out and died and yet, here he was, in a dingy apartment so small that it consisted of only two rooms no bigger than a large cupboard, admiring the glow of their fading energy – But, god, they were so beautiful.
It felt wrong, like he was witnessing a secret that was better left buried, and now he was burdened with knowledge that he’d rather have never known. But that it was his fault for ruining the innocence of stargazing by remembering the fact that the stars where long dead and forgotten by the rest of the universe.
He chuckled darkly to himself; he’d never thought a day would come when he’d feel the same as an astronomical entity but he could relate to knowing that you’ll be forgotten in an instant and that, truly, he’d died many years ago.
This is why he could never quite enjoy the stars.
He sighs loudly and heaves himself up off of the floor and back into his seat. And then he has to stop for a minute to catch his breath; had he always been this weak and weary or was it an effect of his deteriorating mental and physical health?
He couldn’t remember.
I can’t keep this up forever.
As he desperately catches his breath, he ignores the moonlight that bleeds into the room, feeding every dark crack and crevasse of the floorboard and illuminating a red spot a few feet away from where he was previously sitting.
Blood.
It was blood. It was his blood, blood from nights where he had pushed himself harder and harder to get that next character arc completed, next episode finished, next scene, next frame! It was getting harder and harder to write these days. So he needed to work harder to make up for it!
And so he pushed and pushed and pushed until he felt queasy from all of the skipped meals, exhausted from substituting sleep for caffeine pills and dizzy from keeping it up for so long.
But he couldn’t keep it up forever and eventually the dizziness would turn into faintness and he’d start rock. He’d rock back and forth until he slipped off of the chair and came crashing back down to earth. His dream of animating and touching lives was childish, without even a toe testing the waters of reality, so he had to work even harder to achieve it. But even the most innocent dreams, especially innocent dreams, come crashing down eventually.
Just as he does on the nights when dizziness become faintness and he comes crashing back down to earth with a crack of his skull as it hits the floor leaving a pool of blood.
There’s a stain there now, having fallen on the same spot too many times to remember. Even looking at the layers of blood, the embodiment of his weakness and how he’d never reach his goal, made him sick but he didn’t have time to clean it up.
No, he never had time for things like that. Especially considering that it would be an exercise in futility – He was going to stain the floor with his blood again so why clean it up each time? But he did pity the person who would be burdened with the job of clearing the stain when he eventually hit his head too hard, or in just the right wrong spot.
I can’t keep this up forever.
He can’t keep this up forever but for the meantime…
And so he gets back to work.