the problem with messing with people is
you have to live with yourself afterwards
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naminé
Naminé has difficulty coming to terms with herself, sometimes. She thinks there's something very unethical about scattering memories, burying them in the mind of a boy who really shouldn't exist in the first place, who lives in a town which shouldn't exist either. She wonders whether this makes her a bad person, or if she's just following orders, like she should. She also wonders if she really belongs in this white, white room, or if there's someone out there, just like her, the exact opposite of her, the same person, who lives in a black, black room, and who is in the same position, scattering memories which taste like salt and sun and sadness.
She knows someone has given her all of these memories— these memories of a sweet face, and a boy who smiled at her— they aren't her memories, but she knows that they are someone's memories of Sora, and she's starting to believe that maybe everyone holds somebody else's memories... memories upon memories upon memories upon memories. Naminé starts to lose a grip on reality, whenever she thinks too hard about this, which is why she draws, scribbling down memories, hers and Sora's and the other person's memories, to keep it all in perspective.
Naminé finds that if she hangs them on the wall she keeps a better hold on reality. This is why, when the boy who she has been feeding memories comes crashing into her white, white room, she knows exactly who he is and what he wants. After all, she has been inside his head, and she knows everything he does. But not much more, she realizes, which is difficult to comprehend because he's not even supposed to exist and so what does that make her? and then she has to curl her fingers tight around her colored pencils again to keep herself down. The boy doesn't notice— his name is Roxas and he's not here to give her orders; he just wants to know things. And since she is so startled by this, she does her best to explain, even though she knows he doesn't understand.
One day, he'll understand. They'll both understand, she feels, but by then, she's not sure they'll both even be around to hold each other up. One day, he'll come crashing back into her white room reality, words and feelings all wrapped up in a ball of nothing-ness.
For now, however, Naminé is thinking that perhaps the only way to keep on living is to simply grit her teeth and continue drawing. Because somehow the moment the colored pencil touches the grainy surface of the thick paper in her sketchbook, she is lost in the smooth whorl of shades of colors, of the pebble-like texture the lead makes over the variations in the surface on which she's drawing, the heady rush the world makes in her head when she wakes to reality again.
After all, his name is Roxas, or Sora, or it-doesn't-really-matter, and Naminé has already fallen.
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what's funny is i have no explanation for myself.
