~Tamashii no Hikari~
You know, up until I was fourteen, everything was binary in my mind. If things were tangible and believable -- something that made sense -- it was true. Anything that had no rhyme or reason, or just plain made no sense in terms of logic, I dismissed as falsehood or fantasy.
But, you see, that was before I met Yoh.
My book was published a few years back, the story of the Shaman King. No one believed it, of course, except for those who were there, and saw it all unfold. Who could blame them? Had I not stumbled into the graveyard that fateful night, I might still be among those ignorant masses. Asakura Yohmei said it the right way, I think, that man has drifted further and further from the spirits, the basis of our connection to the gods and nature itself, with each passing generation.
I'd never been fond of ghost stories, and yes, sometimes it's painful to remember the ones I lived through... the ones that still haunt me to this day. It's been nearly ten years since that first night, since I began my stories and that of my dearest friends, but I think it's time for a confession to be made.
That last page? That wasn't the end.
The words and retellings I worked so hard to recreate in the most vivid detail I could muster? That wasn't even half of it. So much went on between the lines, beyond the vision and behind the scenes... some of it I chose to skip, and the rest was even beyond my own knowledge until months later.
One such story presses my pen to the paper now, one that I've owed Yoh for some time. I hope he'll forgive me for waiting so long. I've grown a bit in many ways since we last met... but this tale isn't about me. It never was.
It's about him. And everyone.
You know, up until I was fourteen, everything was binary in my mind. If things were tangible and believable -- something that made sense -- it was true. Anything that had no rhyme or reason, or just plain made no sense in terms of logic, I dismissed as falsehood or fantasy.
But, you see, that was before I met Yoh.
My book was published a few years back, the story of the Shaman King. No one believed it, of course, except for those who were there, and saw it all unfold. Who could blame them? Had I not stumbled into the graveyard that fateful night, I might still be among those ignorant masses. Asakura Yohmei said it the right way, I think, that man has drifted further and further from the spirits, the basis of our connection to the gods and nature itself, with each passing generation.
I'd never been fond of ghost stories, and yes, sometimes it's painful to remember the ones I lived through... the ones that still haunt me to this day. It's been nearly ten years since that first night, since I began my stories and that of my dearest friends, but I think it's time for a confession to be made.
That last page? That wasn't the end.
The words and retellings I worked so hard to recreate in the most vivid detail I could muster? That wasn't even half of it. So much went on between the lines, beyond the vision and behind the scenes... some of it I chose to skip, and the rest was even beyond my own knowledge until months later.
One such story presses my pen to the paper now, one that I've owed Yoh for some time. I hope he'll forgive me for waiting so long. I've grown a bit in many ways since we last met... but this tale isn't about me. It never was.
It's about him. And everyone.