Work Text:
'Maybe it would have been different,' he shifted his weight, taking a long puff of the cigarette that tainted his lips, 'If I never met him.'
The clouds met the sun perfectly, sunlight merely grazing their boundaries, illuminating them to look angelic. The rooftop he was on made everything look small, everything looked so serene, so tranquil, yet, a part of him juts wanted to jump. End it all; pushing those thoughts away, burying that part of himself, he returned to his train of thought, still dwelling over his past.
Joining the Mafia to "find a will to live" was very stupid. For someone who prides himself on his intellect, a stupider idea - he couldn't fathom.
It was a desperate idea. As much as he wanted to die, he wanted to live. Live a life full of meaning, if there was no meaning, there was no point in continuing. He wasn't living, he hadn't lived; he'd just survived: he was just living to save himself.
Living to not die,
Evade the inevitable,
He did want to live, didn't he?
Just not live like this. Could this be called living? He was just surviving, after all.
he joined the Mafia in desperation, he wasn't thinking. And, Mori had promised, promised, to kill him after he finished with Dazai. That seemed ideal in his mind. He'd die after he did something. If not his life, his death would have meaning.
Yet, here he stood. Eight years after he met Mori, seven years after joining the Mafia, alive without any purpose.
His childhood was pretty much non-existent. He grew up before everyone else, but so did everyone else in the Mafia, in the Agency; they had their purpose, he didn't.
He let the rage and envy consume him, mind racing to the conclusion of just ending it. Right here, right now, end it all.
He shook his head to snap back to reality, shake away those thoughts.
They weren't untrue though.
He really didn't belong anywhere.
He was nobody's son.
He was just there, like the wind, water.
Maybe that is all people viewed him as. Just someone there. A side character no one cares about.
No one had asked him questions about himself. No one even tried to understand him.
Maybe no one can understand him. His soul, if it was there, was tangled. Tangled in his misery, confusion.
He laughed. Even he couldn't understand himself. How the fuck would anyone else?
He took another puff of his cigarette, the smoke travelling down his throat. Cigarettes didn't even taste good. Sometimes, when he exhaled the smoke, it would burn his eyes. But, that wasn't going to stop him.
The nicotine was a short escape, so was the alcohol, the other drugs he did.
Life is meaningless. It is humans who give it meaning. Half the time, the meaning is just not dying.
How he wished he could be that naïve. Ignorance was a bliss.
Curiosity: a curse. The thirst for understanding is what drove him feral. He hated it.
The more he explored life the more it became clear it was essentially meaningless. People who believe it has any meaning were just fools, ignorant fools deceiving themselves and drowning in a pool of delusion.
How he wished he could be one of them.