Noesis
by Shadowesque13
Rating: PG
Genre: General/Tragedy
Summary: What do the wingless butterflies think?
Dis: YGO (c) Kazuki Takahashi
A/N: Thanks go out to The Great Baka Usagi for a bit of help and just, y'know, being herself. I'll pimp her for a moment and say go read her fics. If you can't make sense of this fic, then all is as it should be.
Humans. You see, they're like angels. Pretty little butterflies that are nothing once the wings are gone. Mortal. Crushed. The human psyche can't possibly hope to understand itself. It can entertain itself with thoughts, thoughts which it thinks are deep and thoughtful, but they're just thoughts, nothing more. Signals to heaven and back again. This, this right here, what I'm speaking, just thoughts. You think it's philosophical, but just thoughts. And the angels sing, but they don't know what the words are, so it only comes out as sound.
How does one perceive sound? Like a gunshot, is it loud, or do we think it's loud? Thoughts are signals. The bullet and the blood, it starts with the same letter, so it makes sense that they go together. Does blood make a sound? Everything could, but it's all in how we perceive it. Some may not hear the sound of blood or of a blade because they understand differently. Individuality is key, but it is an impossibility. Uniqueness is there. Individuality is not. Angels are not individuals. Neither are bullets.
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Mokuba listens to Seto a lot. He's not sure what else to do. Seto would just end up talking to himself if he wasn't there, so he might as well have someone be his audience. It's very frightening and very confusing. But he stays, and he listens, and when Seto is done, he goes back to his room. He doesn't want this to go on.
But then, he's not sure what else to do.
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But do you even know why we are not angels?
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He's smirking now. He does that normally, but it's more pronounced now. Sometimes he smiles. Sometimes he looks all too serious. Mokuba hates the mood swings, too.
Seto doesn't answer his own question.
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Logically, there is no god, no afterlife. We die. There is nothing because, in reality, we are nothing. Atoms slapped together, given a lollipop, a pat on the head. 'There, there, all is better, little one. And all shall be made right.' Right. Right is an illusion. Wrong is just a dream. Dreams are reality and reality heaven. To die, to sleep, to dream. The classics. You should read the classics. You think that you find yourself, your signals, in them. Words are candy, delightful little sweets.
I'm not mad.
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The words startle him. That's the most coherent thing he's said all night.
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I haven't gone insane, like you think.
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That serious look is on his face. Mokuba isn't sure what to make of it this time.
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I am myself. Merely a representation of myself, if you will. Part of every being and, of course, of nothing. I make sound. Do you think I make sound? Does that make me an angel? Thinking so is wrong, therefore reality, yet we know not what is what and who is who. I am a bit of every cell. I am a part of myself.
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He's getting that angry look on his face. Mokuba is ready to duck just in case.
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Just because you haven't seen this part of my face before doesn't mean I exist in thought! Signals, thoughts. The bullet strikes the blood and stops the sound for a moment, and is it hell? Angels can't perceive the same.
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He's calm again. Mokuba relaxes. There are no words for a while, so he thinks he might hop off to bed, but there's a smile, and Seto looks up again.
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Hate me. Stop listening. All you feel are signals.
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He wants to say something, but he's not sure what. Unless asked a question that Seto expects an answer to, he never speaks in the philosophical spewing of words.
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You know that you don't want to hear forgotten words and thus sounds. You know that you don't want to feel signals that jumble up in you, make sense, wrong or right. It's because you do anyway that keeps me locked.
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It's confusing. He might leave, because he thinks he's being told to. Seto's rants hardly ever made sense anymore. Once they used to until it worsened.
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Nobody cares for cells.
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Mokuba takes a few steps away, and the smile grows. Doing what he wants? He can always ramble on later if he needs to. The morning is usually better. The nights are what he hates. He wants to stop when more words are spoken. He hates having Seto talk to himself or talk to his retreating back.
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You know why we can't be angels. Signals to heaven, not on heaven. We are angels lacking butterfly wings. We are human.
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And he's dead by tomorrow morning.