A/N: Disclaimer: Saiyuki isn't mine ^.^
Hello, and welcome to my giant bout of symbolism discharge for tonight. Here's a handy little guide to keep y'all from getting too confused, because I like being vague like that ^.^
Gojyo = trees, flowers, blossoms, anything living...and hummingbirds are women.
Hakkai = the sky, anything green...and I'm sure you know what rain symbolizes here.
Sanzo = the sun...and any outburst of pain comes from Goku.
Winter starts when Gojyo first finds Gonou. The first two seasons revolve around him, but then the focus shifts to Hakkai's point of view.
Hopefully that'll help clear up whatever confusions you have. Lol I may have to post an explanation chapter after this one if there's still confusion, but if you ask me questions about what I've already answered here, rest assured I'm not going to answer them again.
Enjoy my strange poetic-nessosity.
***
Winter. Dead trees paralyzed to the roots, black and naked. Spurts of rain in thunderstorms that stretch for miles. Snow melted by lightning strikes, left to puddle in the sludge on the ground.
Hundreds, thousands of dead cigarettes either burned to butts or hardly touched. The former size sports filters chewed nearly through. The latter size is bent double as a result of being frustratedly rubbed out in an unyielding ashtray. Beer cans. Dirty clothes. Unopened condoms. Takeout boxes. Week-old, cold coffee leaving rings on cheap furniture and cigarette packs. Open windows, always open.
A place not meant for entertaining sees two instead of one, sometimes three. Knotted bedsheets. Night terrors. Stethoscopes. Stitches. The silence of two sets of lungs broken by a lighter, small fires, incoherent gasps, dream-words. The cold austerity, strange finality of closed eyes and long lashes dusting death-pale cheeks.
A flash of green comes before the change. Groundhog Day. Flashes of something that could be meaningful; the first dry day, the first bird to sing, the tentative buds of early flowers. Two alive for a time, then suddenly four, and none. Here returns the frost. Excruciatingly empty until one returns, and that is worse.
A memory of autumn long past, brilliant red leaves fall from top boughs to rest in the sink. The tree is dying and hiding it under an easy smile and a bandanna. Thousands of cigarettes bent double in their prime. Beer cans. Dirty clothes. Unopened condoms. Takeout boxes. Knotted bedsheets. Scissors. Guilt.
Winter.
*
Venture out, the first leaves returning, attract hummingbirds to the blooms. The nakedness of death is not so pronounced when the life returns and hangs in your beautiful eyes. And echoes in a different voice, strange but familiar. A sequel where the actor's name has changed.
*
Spring. Unfolding flowers turn to face the sky, brilliant but shy. Fresh rains that cleanse the ground, releasing the scent of wet earth. Dry days where that earth can breathe, forcing fresh life to the surface.
Hundreds of dead cigarettes burned to reasonable size, before the filter releases the burning-cork stench that stains clothing for weeks. Ashtrays emptied into the garbage, garbage left out on the correct day. The floor, finally visible and remarkably clean. Beer cans on coasters. Folded clothes. Unopened condoms stashed beneath the bed. The clang of cookware. Hot coffee ready and steaming first thing in the morning, never instant if it can be helped. Windows opened on the clear days.
A place not meant for entertaining becomes a home, becoming accustomed to two. The emptiness of long nights with only one. The tang of epiphany. Complexities too hot to touch. Everything else. The silence of two sets of lungs broken by soft laughter, understanding, incoherent gasps, dream-words. The soft welcoming, awkward finality of collapsing into arms that stay past sunrise.
One relapse. Saint Patrick's Day. Raindrops pelting a half-empty house, hollow rooftop and the pounding heartbeat of a memory. Melancholy hangs heavy, not yielding to the opening door that shatters the silence or the heavy unspoken apologies. Here returns the warmth. Excruciatingly alone until one returns, and that is worse.
A memory of winter long past, silver-transparent tears hide behind brilliant green eyes to pool in the heart. The frost resurges and lurks under impeccable manners. Hundreds of cigarettes put out on garbage day. Coasters. Folded laundry. A stash of condoms. Cookware. Memories. Rain. Guilt.
Spring.
*
Venture out, the strength ever-present, rely upon the blooms. The nakedness of death is not so pronounced when hidden under the life that dances in your beautiful eyes. And echoes in your head, strange but familiar. The rebound where the lover stays the same.
*
Summer. Sun dominates the sky, assertive and overpowering. Ever-dry days with winds like constant exhalation so the earth does not breathe. Only the strong survive without constant care, and the dependents suffer for it.
Thousands of dead cigarettes pitched out the window to bounce and come to a stop before the engine roar dies away. No familiarity but the constant lost race with the sun. Beer cans. Dirty clothes. Unopened condoms. Blood-painted bandages. Sweat. No windows to close, no partitions to build even on the dark days.
Four bodies crammed together against their will, testing at unfamiliar parameters. Tangling limbs. Arguments. No privacy whatsoever. Tension. The silence of two sets of lungs lost in too much breathing without the other life-noises as well. The utter, frightening finality of casual pain, of death.
Unbearable heat. Summer Equinox. The sun reveals its warmth through the cold exterior, begging to be bathed in. A moment of lost sense and fantastic control until one blink brings morning. Here returns obligation. Excruciatingly wretched until one is remembered, and that is worse.
A memory of spring long past, blue-violet falling below red in sudden favoritism that grips the gut. The blooms blossom under friendly animosity. Thousands of cigarettes pitched over shoulders. Beer cans. Dirty clothes. Unopened condoms. Blood and sweat. Sunlight. Tension. Guilt.
Summer.
*
Venture out into the shade and the rain, searching for the blooms. The nakedness of death is not so pronounced when the memories are sharper, and they dull in his beautiful eyes. Return to the echoes, strange but familiar. A homecoming when home never knew you left.
*
Autumn. Trees are most beautiful just before death. Leaves like fire lick at the sky until they fall away, littering the ground. Soft rains darken the skies in preparation of later months.
Hundreds of dead cigarettes littering ashtrays next to full jugs of hot liquor. Liquor replaced whenever it is asked. Beer cans are unnecessary. Old clothes. Unopened condoms shoved into pockets. Cards. Endless streams of words. Windows opened to let the world outside the bonds of this room.
Four bodies playing favorites, separating for space and joining for solace. Tangling limbs. Arguments. No privacy whatsoever. Amicability. The silence of two sets of lungs broken by soft laughter, incoherent gasps, dream-words, the squawk of pain from across the hall. The comfortable, easy finality of being dragged into a room obviously to be shared.
Desensitized functioning. Halloween. Horrors dance before casual faces that drown later in one another. Ignore the reflexes of summer, ignore the sunlight that tints closed eyes. Here returns familiarity. Excruciatingly awake until one crashes down, and that is worse.
A memory of winter long past, summer too soon to laugh about and spring too hazy to understand. Foreboding roils under routine nonchalance. Hundreds of cigarettes littering ashtrays. Hot liquor. Old clothes. A stash of condoms. Poker faces. Favoritism. Sunlight. Guilt.
Autumn.
*
Hang back in the shade, pulling petals from oblivious blooms. The nakedness of death is not so pronounced when the bloodied hands are not the only ones to meet your beautiful eyes. Revel in the echoes, strange but familiar. Hibernation spent in praying for a sweeter spring.
Hello, and welcome to my giant bout of symbolism discharge for tonight. Here's a handy little guide to keep y'all from getting too confused, because I like being vague like that ^.^
Gojyo = trees, flowers, blossoms, anything living...and hummingbirds are women.
Hakkai = the sky, anything green...and I'm sure you know what rain symbolizes here.
Sanzo = the sun...and any outburst of pain comes from Goku.
Winter starts when Gojyo first finds Gonou. The first two seasons revolve around him, but then the focus shifts to Hakkai's point of view.
Hopefully that'll help clear up whatever confusions you have. Lol I may have to post an explanation chapter after this one if there's still confusion, but if you ask me questions about what I've already answered here, rest assured I'm not going to answer them again.
Enjoy my strange poetic-nessosity.
***
Winter. Dead trees paralyzed to the roots, black and naked. Spurts of rain in thunderstorms that stretch for miles. Snow melted by lightning strikes, left to puddle in the sludge on the ground.
Hundreds, thousands of dead cigarettes either burned to butts or hardly touched. The former size sports filters chewed nearly through. The latter size is bent double as a result of being frustratedly rubbed out in an unyielding ashtray. Beer cans. Dirty clothes. Unopened condoms. Takeout boxes. Week-old, cold coffee leaving rings on cheap furniture and cigarette packs. Open windows, always open.
A place not meant for entertaining sees two instead of one, sometimes three. Knotted bedsheets. Night terrors. Stethoscopes. Stitches. The silence of two sets of lungs broken by a lighter, small fires, incoherent gasps, dream-words. The cold austerity, strange finality of closed eyes and long lashes dusting death-pale cheeks.
A flash of green comes before the change. Groundhog Day. Flashes of something that could be meaningful; the first dry day, the first bird to sing, the tentative buds of early flowers. Two alive for a time, then suddenly four, and none. Here returns the frost. Excruciatingly empty until one returns, and that is worse.
A memory of autumn long past, brilliant red leaves fall from top boughs to rest in the sink. The tree is dying and hiding it under an easy smile and a bandanna. Thousands of cigarettes bent double in their prime. Beer cans. Dirty clothes. Unopened condoms. Takeout boxes. Knotted bedsheets. Scissors. Guilt.
Winter.
*
Venture out, the first leaves returning, attract hummingbirds to the blooms. The nakedness of death is not so pronounced when the life returns and hangs in your beautiful eyes. And echoes in a different voice, strange but familiar. A sequel where the actor's name has changed.
*
Spring. Unfolding flowers turn to face the sky, brilliant but shy. Fresh rains that cleanse the ground, releasing the scent of wet earth. Dry days where that earth can breathe, forcing fresh life to the surface.
Hundreds of dead cigarettes burned to reasonable size, before the filter releases the burning-cork stench that stains clothing for weeks. Ashtrays emptied into the garbage, garbage left out on the correct day. The floor, finally visible and remarkably clean. Beer cans on coasters. Folded clothes. Unopened condoms stashed beneath the bed. The clang of cookware. Hot coffee ready and steaming first thing in the morning, never instant if it can be helped. Windows opened on the clear days.
A place not meant for entertaining becomes a home, becoming accustomed to two. The emptiness of long nights with only one. The tang of epiphany. Complexities too hot to touch. Everything else. The silence of two sets of lungs broken by soft laughter, understanding, incoherent gasps, dream-words. The soft welcoming, awkward finality of collapsing into arms that stay past sunrise.
One relapse. Saint Patrick's Day. Raindrops pelting a half-empty house, hollow rooftop and the pounding heartbeat of a memory. Melancholy hangs heavy, not yielding to the opening door that shatters the silence or the heavy unspoken apologies. Here returns the warmth. Excruciatingly alone until one returns, and that is worse.
A memory of winter long past, silver-transparent tears hide behind brilliant green eyes to pool in the heart. The frost resurges and lurks under impeccable manners. Hundreds of cigarettes put out on garbage day. Coasters. Folded laundry. A stash of condoms. Cookware. Memories. Rain. Guilt.
Spring.
*
Venture out, the strength ever-present, rely upon the blooms. The nakedness of death is not so pronounced when hidden under the life that dances in your beautiful eyes. And echoes in your head, strange but familiar. The rebound where the lover stays the same.
*
Summer. Sun dominates the sky, assertive and overpowering. Ever-dry days with winds like constant exhalation so the earth does not breathe. Only the strong survive without constant care, and the dependents suffer for it.
Thousands of dead cigarettes pitched out the window to bounce and come to a stop before the engine roar dies away. No familiarity but the constant lost race with the sun. Beer cans. Dirty clothes. Unopened condoms. Blood-painted bandages. Sweat. No windows to close, no partitions to build even on the dark days.
Four bodies crammed together against their will, testing at unfamiliar parameters. Tangling limbs. Arguments. No privacy whatsoever. Tension. The silence of two sets of lungs lost in too much breathing without the other life-noises as well. The utter, frightening finality of casual pain, of death.
Unbearable heat. Summer Equinox. The sun reveals its warmth through the cold exterior, begging to be bathed in. A moment of lost sense and fantastic control until one blink brings morning. Here returns obligation. Excruciatingly wretched until one is remembered, and that is worse.
A memory of spring long past, blue-violet falling below red in sudden favoritism that grips the gut. The blooms blossom under friendly animosity. Thousands of cigarettes pitched over shoulders. Beer cans. Dirty clothes. Unopened condoms. Blood and sweat. Sunlight. Tension. Guilt.
Summer.
*
Venture out into the shade and the rain, searching for the blooms. The nakedness of death is not so pronounced when the memories are sharper, and they dull in his beautiful eyes. Return to the echoes, strange but familiar. A homecoming when home never knew you left.
*
Autumn. Trees are most beautiful just before death. Leaves like fire lick at the sky until they fall away, littering the ground. Soft rains darken the skies in preparation of later months.
Hundreds of dead cigarettes littering ashtrays next to full jugs of hot liquor. Liquor replaced whenever it is asked. Beer cans are unnecessary. Old clothes. Unopened condoms shoved into pockets. Cards. Endless streams of words. Windows opened to let the world outside the bonds of this room.
Four bodies playing favorites, separating for space and joining for solace. Tangling limbs. Arguments. No privacy whatsoever. Amicability. The silence of two sets of lungs broken by soft laughter, incoherent gasps, dream-words, the squawk of pain from across the hall. The comfortable, easy finality of being dragged into a room obviously to be shared.
Desensitized functioning. Halloween. Horrors dance before casual faces that drown later in one another. Ignore the reflexes of summer, ignore the sunlight that tints closed eyes. Here returns familiarity. Excruciatingly awake until one crashes down, and that is worse.
A memory of winter long past, summer too soon to laugh about and spring too hazy to understand. Foreboding roils under routine nonchalance. Hundreds of cigarettes littering ashtrays. Hot liquor. Old clothes. A stash of condoms. Poker faces. Favoritism. Sunlight. Guilt.
Autumn.
*
Hang back in the shade, pulling petals from oblivious blooms. The nakedness of death is not so pronounced when the bloodied hands are not the only ones to meet your beautiful eyes. Revel in the echoes, strange but familiar. Hibernation spent in praying for a sweeter spring.