There's no one truly real in this world.
That is what I hear people say, but then I start thinking, how can reality be filled with unreal people? Where exactly is it that we're living then? What are we if that is to be true? I rather leave those questions unanswered if I am to find an unpleasant answer as the only way out of it. Perhaps I am meant to be left to wonder whether if I am real or not.
Who is not?
I'm young. I know that. I know I am meant to act another way; society tells me so, my parents most of all.
Having been raised as a rich kid, as someone who is to follow rules, someone who is to follow everything that defines good has definitively not affected me much all that much. I must admit I do not consider myself the type that goes around acting like a rebel, like someone with no class; after all, I was raised not to be like that.
Sometimes I'm left to wonder what I'm supposed to be doing with my life. It's not like I want to inherit my father's business, seeing as how my brothers are already taking care of that.
I remain clueless, but I definitively would much more rather live in the worlds I often write about rather than this cold library I am sitting currently at. Should I be marveled by the beauty that this room holds? Maybe. Probably. I rather think of it as something normal instead.
I much more rather be marveled by other things such as the sky. The view I get from sitting here is pleasant; perhaps it is more than beauty can convey.
No one is perfect, there's no one who is. If you stare at this monotonous world, walk between everyone, never pushing, never pulling, if you just linger, maybe the keen desire of thinking and feeling instead of knowing and living will clothe you as well.
You know that feeling of walking through a heavily industrialized city? Maybe you've already heard the sound of crowded streets, of talking people, of crashing cars; smelt the permanent combination of sweet perfumes snatched from their owners. Maybe you've seen how modern yet empty the world has become. What about music? Do you listen to music while walking? Maybe you've also felt the unpleasant sensation of trading musical sounds from a cell phone or mp3 player for the cold reality, soundless and deprived from beauty, still, the noisiest and most complex abstraction. I'm young. I've been told I shouldn't think the way I do. I can't help it. I'd rather stay in my room forever, just listening to my music, writing my own world. I might live in one world, but it doesn't mean I have to be alive in it. Just for a change, I wish I could live in everything I write and touch the worlds I create. I'm the youngest of three; most careless of all. Future means nothing, we live our past; my past is my future. I've condemned myself. I've lost the path I've been following. All I care about right now is my writing. It's ironic. It's ironic I would rather write than eat; but I'd rather die than give my life and my words. Like I said, I'm young. You can't really expect me to know what I should want. Maybe I like being able to control every single detail there is in the world. Then again; I can be unexpected. Maybe I just like knowing there's a world only I can control.
The notebook was closed as soon as I heard my name been called from downstairs; I had more to write, but I knew it would be better if I just stopped now instead of later.
I walked into the hallway and sighed at the people rushing from one place to another; from my brother's office to other rooms; seeing as how they wouldn't disturb me anymore, they began looking for books in the now empty library for my other brother; and I could tell a lot of them where already worrying about the amount of decorations that my mom would ask them to make.
I let my right hand scratch my head and run through my hair as I let out a soft yawn. How these people managed to be so active at nine am was beyond me. Then again, how I could write as much as I do from seven am until nine am on a Monday was beyond them.
I walked into my room and left my notebook on top of my bed. As I made my way outside again, I caught a glimpse of my reflection on a mirror. Might I say my hair looks terrible; who cares?
When I reached the kitchen I saw my brother Sai sitting there reading a book. One of his hands held the book, the other held an apple. I snickered at how he looked.
In my family, we all look alike. We all have rather pale skin, we all have either dark brown or black hair, most males are tall, most of us have dark brown, dark gray or blue eyes and we are all famous for the same reasons: being good at everything.
A paragon-like legacy I would say.
There's always someone that is willing; someone that can. My oldest brother Itachi is someone who can, but he's also someone who isn't willing. To be able to take a falling company at the age of twenty-three and bring it back to its highest point is not an easy task; yet, he did it. I would say that my brother makes 'making money' sound easy.
There is always someone -someone that is willing; someone that can-. There's always a hand, another opportunity, someone that loves and might blind his or herself. Love blinds those that are willing to love –those that are aware they live once, and can only love twice-. There's always someone else that breaks –someone that was tainted; someone that won't listen-. There's always one that suffers; one that isn't willing to change.
He's a prodigy, yes- but for me he's just someone else most of the time.
I scratched my neck and yawned once again before sitting down opposite to Sai. He looked up from his book and glanced at me from behind his thick black glasses. I gave him a half-smile as I stretched. He muttered a soft 'hey' before going back to reading.
Sure, we might all look similar to each other –my brothers and I- but if you look closely, or if you just listen to us speaking when not in front of an important public, you can see just how damn different the three of us are. In fact, sometimes I have trouble believing we're actually family.
Itachi is now twenty-five. He's tall, he has long straight black hair and he has a huge charisma. He can easily convince you if he wants to and he is smart as hell. He studied in Harvard and skipped a couple years in high school. I'd say he is the typical perfect man any girl would want to marry. He's always calm unless when you really piss him off. He has a good sense of humor, he's polite, mature and he is kind.
My family's business consists of a modeling agency associated with several beauty shops and beauty salons. Not only that, but my father also invested on some sort of projects I rather not understand. These have brought us even more money. Pretty cool, huh?
Yeah. I won't lie. I live a spoiled life. We have thirty-five servants. We live in a huge house with three pools and five different themed gardens. The funny part? I don't ever visit them; I rather swim at my school's pool and having people do things for me often bothers me.
Yeah, I guess I'm grateful for all I have; sometimes, that is.
My brother Sai is probably my brother's opposite when it comes to dealing with people. When it comes to the physical, Itachi's face is rather sharp. He has a pointy nose, average lips and thin eye brows. His cheek bones are prominent and his face is kind of sunken. Sai on the other hand has a smaller nose, thin lips, a squared jaw line, and he's a little bit shorter than me. He wears thick glasses, and has stubble most of the time. His hair is short and messy and he is a social inept. Oh and he's nine-teen.
What about me?
I don't know. I'm thin but I work out a lot, I like styling my hair. My nose isn't too pointy. My eyebrows are just whatever. I deal with people when I feel like dealing with people. A difference is that I like working. In fact, I'm working at one of our beauty salons for summer. I'm seventeen. I smoke and I like drinking.
As I sat down a maid rushed in with food. I grabbed an apple from the plate in front of me.
"Wear a shirt- the maids are drooling." Sai's apathetic voice made me wonder if he really did care about what these girls thought about me. Sure enough, as my gaze met theirs, I saw them looking away. I must've smirked then.
"Not my fault." I muttered bringing my left knee up to my chest.
"It never is, little brother." Without turning around, I let my head fall back and saw Itachi smiling down at me. He made his way to Sai's side and –seeing as how his other younger brother acted oblivious to his presence- he took the apple that was held in his hand and ruffled his hair.
I watched the whole scene amused and chuckled at Sai's glare filled with utter annoyance as he closed his book and rolled his eyes. My mom walked in right as Will began taking away Rob's plate with food too.
"Give him back his food, Itachi." She smiled.
If I was to define the perfect woman, I would –thought it might sound a little disgusting- describe exactly who my mother is. She's kind, she's a beautiful woman, she acts like a fresh, young, yet responsible girl and she is probably the one that gave Itachi the calm, relaxed genes.
Mari the head maid made her way over to where I was and offered me several different options for breakfast. I shook my head softly and with a smile told her I just wanted some grape juice. Out of the corner of my eye I saw my mom rolling her eyes and frown in disapproval.
"Young boy, you will not be leaving this house unless you eat something."
I rolled my eyes and grabbed a piece of toast along with my grape juice as Marie arrived. "Food is food, mom." I sang as I rushed out of the room. I hurried back to my room and changed my clothes into something that went along well with the weather. I confess, I probably spent fifteen minutes moving my clothes around only to end up wearing the same I wore the day prior, but who cares? I am a teenage boy after all and jeans are for any day.
Am I to believe that what we do when we live is what we are meant to be doing when we die?
Things change. Things change a lot when someone else decides to take over them. A whole nation can change if the thoughts one ruler conveys differ from those the prior one had. A modeling agency owned by a matured man will differ when owned by a man in his early twenties with a prominent social life. That was my brother.
We thought my father would've passed away by that time, but he seemed to be getting better and better as days passed by. To an extent, I actually wanted him to just go away already.
People might've thought I always got what I wanted, but they were wrong. He never went away. That feeling of uneasiness that would invade my body whenever I had to listen to his bickering –one which was interrupted by his own coughs- and I had to stand tall before him as the ideas kept flowing would never leave. I wouldn't listen, never cared.
No one is perfect, there's no one who is. If you stare at this monotonous world, walk between everyone, never pushing, never pulling, if you just linger, maybe the keen desire of thinking and feeling instead of knowing and living will clothe you as well.
Walking out the front door I closed the big wooden door behind me and covered my eyes with my sunglasses –which were of course quite expensive-. It was then a day with possibility to be good was ruined. Walking down the couple steps that led away from the porch, I spotted my father not that far away but walking towards me. My eyes stopped watching him as they turned up ahead and led my feet away from a situation I wouldn't be able to control and which I wanted to know nothing about. I heard him have one of his coughing-fits as I walked away from my own family, my own father, my own destruction.
Five minutes away from home, all I wanted to do was light a cigarette.