There is a certain Beauty in the blankness
of a page. White, clear, empty, only to become scarred by my markings.
The sheets are bright against my hands, lightly contrasting one paleness
to another. Ah. Be careful with the delicacy of the paper. It tears easily.
Lightly, lightly, press the brush against the paper. Use water to dilute the ink. Strong blackness means clear thoughts, clearly marked. The whiteness is purity, unscarred by the darkness. Water to lighten the darkness. Water to show the sorrow of my words.
Silence sometimes speaks of deeper thoughts
The paper is a silent universe, and I float
wide in a blank white world.
My mirror reflects a profile of glass, both
hard and fragile. I am a transparent thing. Pale creature. I am Nothing,
and it is so easy not to see Nothing. How beautiful is a sky at night,
without the velvet blackness between the stars? Nothing comes from Nothing.
If everything has always existed, then Nothing has also always existed.
I do wonder at times, what will happen when they are victorious. When chichi-ue
dies, and so our source of life. Kagura-chan fears death. I do not so much
fear the Nothingness. One who is Nothing cannot fear herself, for there
is Nothing there to feel.
Such things are transitory.
I am an abstract of Nothing, and so Nothing
is what I am. How to be Nothing? What personality does Nothing portray?
What emotion should Nothing express? Of course, the answer is none. And
yet, it is written that silence speaks of deeper thoughts. Perhaps it is
so. Which leaves me to watch. To listen and observe of the drama in which
I take part. My companions are reflections, unreal. There is no soul in
the reflection. My image is reflected, a replica of illusionary magic.
Edge of echo. Shade of cloud. In my small hands rests oblivion. If I lose
myself, will I find myself again?
If I were to vanish away, would you come seeking my name even unto the grave?
There is a white ghost in the mirror.
Is Nothing a part of Hell? It would seem so,
if my creation is real, to be believed. I am Godless, and he is Hell. Irony
is a satiric thing.
I do wonder at the curse of Hell. It seems
to enjoy the Nothingness, enjoy the biting harshness of the Wind. Look
into the reflection, look into the mirror. They travel now, steady in their
course. I do pity the one. To use a curse to the benefit of oneself is
a wonderous ability, rebellion against fate. And yet to know that the Nothingness
shall one day consume. Not knowing. Never knowing. Beyond death lies the
Nothingness. How horrible to die, for those who do feel. Never knowing
anything else, it is not a difficult concept to adjust to.
Dip the brush in the water, paint the characters
in faded hand upon the paper. Lightly, lightly. Let the ink pale against
the white paper. Faded, faded, washed away into the emptyness of white
paper.
Raging in faraway hills, the storm sweeps away both scarlet leaves
and dew, leaving no trace.
And what of the end? Shall there be a crumbling
sky and a flash of jeweled light? Am I to be the lady of Nowhere? Nowhere
is here.
Should I rage? Should I rage against the Nothingness,
as Kagura-chan does? Against the fate spun out of our creation? I am not
a thing born. I am a thing created. Nothing comes from Nothing. Nothing
is not born. Better simply to accept my fate, and bow my head meekly, gently
allowing the silence of the mind to wash away despair. Poor brother, already
in the white arms of the Nothingness, adrift in the abyss of nightmares.
Is there another place to go, when dead?
no.
The ressurected one is haunted by nightmares
of bleak death. See how the hate fills her? She is a lonely thing, wandering
now in a valley. See how empty her eyes become as the souls filter away
from her. Nothing, Nothing inside. Empty, hollow shell of Nothingness.
Poor, corrupted thing. Nothing would be a blessing to you. Poor, poor thing.
Perhaps if I captured those souls in my mirror, you would be happier in
the Nothingness.
Where did it come from? As I was wondering, the morning glory
flower faded into pitiful nothingness.
Gently. Yes, the calligraphy is fluid, lightly
pressed on the page. Should someone else find my copies? Silly Nothingness,
to worry of such things. No creativitity comes from the void. No breath
of life, no dream in sleep. No new thoughts flow from Nothing. Only reflections
of what has already been created. Where do such things come from? Ideas.
Hopes, dreams, beauty. Thought. Life.
Perhaps, somewhere in the Nothingess between
the stars, there is a place where such things are born. Is that foolish
of me? To hope for an opposite to myself? Hope. That word, too, must be
born. Not created, as Nothingness is created. Stars are born, lighting
the Nothingness. Where is the place dreams are formed? Is it...is it a
happy place? Yes, that is the word. Happy. Silly word. I shall not speak
it. Though it must exist, that elusive emotion. The ressurected one does
not feel it. Yet the reborn one carries it in her body, in their soul.
But then that would mean life is superior to death, and hence Nothingness.
There is Nothing other than Nothing.
Nothing comes from Nothing.
Why do I not feel?
Perhaps that is why I show Nothing, and my
face reveals Nothing. The fragile profile of glass would shatter. Is it
better then, to be broken? Rage. Rage against my creation. There is nothing
I can do. To fight would mean to usher in my own demise. To rage would
usher in my own death. But...I do not fear the Nothingness.
Carefully, carefully, carefully paint the
letters on the page. Bamboo brush, black ink the color of pitch. Drown
in the darkness. Press harder, see the stark lines against the empty page.
I do not fear the Nothingness. I will not
fear the Nothingness. What is cold? Is this cold? This sensation that robs
me of motion? I will die when we lose. I will die.
To be forgotten is not unusual in these sad times-
what is depressing is the lack of consolation.
Silently, I shall bow my head and let silent
tears mingle in the cloudy wistfulness of the scarred page. The blankness
of my white world is slashed in black letters of sorrowful beauty. Caged
entrapment, falling sakura, unable to flow away on currents of wind. Short
life, full of Nothingness. Is such a life a life at all? Does Nothing bore
the idle reader, who seeks only entertainment?
I am a white woman, an illuminated shadow
on the wall.
I will be forgotten.
*o~O~o*o~O~o*o~O~o*o~O~o*o~O~o*o~O~o*
Yes, this is Kanna speaking...I'm not really
certain what I was thinking about when I wrote this...it was awhile ago
now, and now that I've seen the anime episodes with Kanna, I decided to
go ahead and post it. Why, I'm not really sure...but I've always had a
soft spot for the silent characters, the ones who have no expression, no
emotion. I wonder what they think. And I don't think I've ever seen a fic
about Kanna before. (If there's one out there, I'm curious to see it....)
Her sad, distant expression got to me the first time I saw her picture,
even before reading about her part in the manga.
Ever notice the odd parallel between Miroku's
kazaana (the air rip) and Kanna and Kagura's powers? It's a little thing,
I know, but Naraku seems to be awfully fond of using wind and oblivion.
The poems used thoughout the fic are by Murasaki,
authoress of the great novel "The Tale of Genji" (aka. Genji
Monogatari). The first waka (the kind of poem- I've also seen
it spelled tanka) is from "Genji" and the rest are taken
from Liza Dalby's novel "The Tale of Murasaki." Definitely one of
the best books I've ever read. Truly beautiful.
Ja ne, til next storytime.
~Queen