Wishful Thinking
Life is good. I realise this every morning when I wake up, but it never ceases to surprise me. It says a lot about me, I suppose, that when the sunlight coming in through the window drags me out of the dream world and into this one there's a fleeting moment of dread before I open my eyes and am reassured that everything is the same as it was yesterday. It's irrational, but there's still a moment of overriding relief every morning when I see that spectres of my past haven't snuck up on me in my sleep. All of that . . . it really is over. I know this not because of the trials, not because NERV was disbanded or because the EVA's were decommissioned, but because I don't have the nightmares any more. It's truly over.
I gaze aimlessly out of the kitchen window as I make breakfast, thinking about the day ahead while losing myself in morning routine. I teach the cello at a nearby middle school. Small classes, three times a week. It doesn't pay that much though, which is mostly why I take on some performance work as well. I get a fair number of offers these days. Sometimes because of how I play and sometimes just because of notoriety. I never accept the latter type, although they can get pretty pushy. It doesn't amount to that much work, but it helps keep me comfortable financially while leaving enough time for what I love.
What I love is to teach. This came as something of a surprise to me when I first realized it. I'd thought it was just another job that would help support me while I graduated. Instead it turned out to be what I wanted to do with my life before I even realised it. I won't try to describe it, because I know I'll only end up speaking in clichés. I've heard people wonder why someone with my talent bothers to teach children at some unknown middle school, but in truth I sometimes wonder why I bother doing anything else.
The journey to the school where I teach takes about twenty minutes by bicycle. The train ride is inexpensive and five times faster but I prefer to be out in the open - and I don't much like to travel by train these days. Although the seasons are slowly returning to normal the weather is rarely inclement, and I take pleasure from cycling through the park on my way to work. I see people enjoying themselves and I savour the feeling of the breeze against my face. It's fun, too, when I catch the odd strange look from a passer-by, staring at the strange man who's somehow keeping his balance on a bicycle with a cello case strapped to his back. I don't dwell much anymore on how the capital city of a country as crowded as Japan came to have so much space available for a park in the first place.
"So Shinji, up to another round with the little monsters?"
That's Kurosawa Ayame, the head of the music department at the school where I teach. "I am and they aren't, respectively."
"They're not ready for you?" she asks, teasing me by deliberately misunderstanding. I roll my eyes in response.
"No, they're not monsters."
She doesn't reply, except to snicker slightly. Bantering with her has gotten to be a regular feature of my week. I don't have that many friends really, but she's definitely one of them. Maybe even more, considering some of the things she's said to me. I'm still trying to decide how I feel about that. She's both nice and pretty, yet whenever I think about her I can't help but think of someone else as well. You'd think after so much time has passed the memories would fade, at least a little. They haven't.
I still wonder what happened to her, what she's doing now, where she is. And I wonder how she'd feel if she knew I still think about her. I should get on with my life, I suppose, but it doesn't always work like that. Sometimes I even imagine I see her, like at that restaurant the other night.
In my heart though, however much I wish she was around, I know better.
It's only wishful thinking.
Life is good. I realise this every morning when I wake up, but it never ceases to surprise me. It says a lot about me, I suppose, that when the sunlight coming in through the window drags me out of the dream world and into this one there's a fleeting moment of dread before I open my eyes and am reassured that everything is the same as it was yesterday. It's irrational, but there's still a moment of overriding relief every morning when I see that spectres of my past haven't snuck up on me in my sleep. All of that . . . it really is over. I know this not because of the trials, not because NERV was disbanded or because the EVA's were decommissioned, but because I don't have the nightmares any more. It's truly over.
I gaze aimlessly out of the kitchen window as I make breakfast, thinking about the day ahead while losing myself in morning routine. I teach the cello at a nearby middle school. Small classes, three times a week. It doesn't pay that much though, which is mostly why I take on some performance work as well. I get a fair number of offers these days. Sometimes because of how I play and sometimes just because of notoriety. I never accept the latter type, although they can get pretty pushy. It doesn't amount to that much work, but it helps keep me comfortable financially while leaving enough time for what I love.
What I love is to teach. This came as something of a surprise to me when I first realized it. I'd thought it was just another job that would help support me while I graduated. Instead it turned out to be what I wanted to do with my life before I even realised it. I won't try to describe it, because I know I'll only end up speaking in clichés. I've heard people wonder why someone with my talent bothers to teach children at some unknown middle school, but in truth I sometimes wonder why I bother doing anything else.
The journey to the school where I teach takes about twenty minutes by bicycle. The train ride is inexpensive and five times faster but I prefer to be out in the open - and I don't much like to travel by train these days. Although the seasons are slowly returning to normal the weather is rarely inclement, and I take pleasure from cycling through the park on my way to work. I see people enjoying themselves and I savour the feeling of the breeze against my face. It's fun, too, when I catch the odd strange look from a passer-by, staring at the strange man who's somehow keeping his balance on a bicycle with a cello case strapped to his back. I don't dwell much anymore on how the capital city of a country as crowded as Japan came to have so much space available for a park in the first place.
"So Shinji, up to another round with the little monsters?"
That's Kurosawa Ayame, the head of the music department at the school where I teach. "I am and they aren't, respectively."
"They're not ready for you?" she asks, teasing me by deliberately misunderstanding. I roll my eyes in response.
"No, they're not monsters."
She doesn't reply, except to snicker slightly. Bantering with her has gotten to be a regular feature of my week. I don't have that many friends really, but she's definitely one of them. Maybe even more, considering some of the things she's said to me. I'm still trying to decide how I feel about that. She's both nice and pretty, yet whenever I think about her I can't help but think of someone else as well. You'd think after so much time has passed the memories would fade, at least a little. They haven't.
I still wonder what happened to her, what she's doing now, where she is. And I wonder how she'd feel if she knew I still think about her. I should get on with my life, I suppose, but it doesn't always work like that. Sometimes I even imagine I see her, like at that restaurant the other night.
In my heart though, however much I wish she was around, I know better.
It's only wishful thinking.