.
.
.
darling, you are
something between
an artist and a madman
.
Mimi is fully aware that she is no exception from the girls that surrounded him; the same girls who are captivated by his music and Kerouacian attitude. An effective ruse, she applauds him for that (in the quiet), for she prided herself to be special to him. Very special.
She knows Yamato enough – his uncharted confines, his playground, his comfort zone – but sometimes he's in a whole new world, with a whole new him that stuns her every time he was on stage: bare-chested, in his dancing shoes, and his deep, husky voice with matching facial expressions she sees so often when they're in bed.
His music is tasteful art; spontaneous, stylish, confident, sometimes completely and needlessly outre'. She didn't mind – as long as his love-language was the same.
It's not, most of the time –
for there were times he'd choose getting stoned or drunk over brunch or dinner with her; joints and obscure European booze over bacon and eggs, or salad and steak. Up to now she still can't see how these vices are so crucial to his songwriting – among other odd rituals which she could not accept.
Her disappointment vanishes every time, for he was very clever in sweeping her off of her feet. She'll be giddy as he whispers the words she'd exactly want to hear – those flowery words that he puts to his poems and songs, each holding broken promises, pledges of adoration.
Quite the bard he is, actually.
She learns from it, eventually; walking away, finally accepting that she was no more than just a part of his creative process.
you are
a living
work of art
.
Behind every artist was his muse, every line of every song was a short breath of their reality, and it wasn't so hard to figure out what –specifically, who – fascinates him.
Yamato was in no way special enough to inspire himself, relying on the enigma of certain girl whose name was just as sweet as do-re-mi.
He doesn't get tired of saying it – Mimi – exactly like in do-re-mi. She was (still is) everything he wanted and feared, for he could not control or understand her chaos. Several a time she would not let him in, keeping her fears and her pain all to herself; and it drove him mad for he ought it was his duty to be her champion.
She was a mystery, and he was obsessed trying to master her soul – something which he shouldn't even be doing in the first place.
She was – still is, he bitterly re-reminds himself – the favourite, the apple of his eye, the inspiration, the only one; and she knows it very well. She was special – extra, extra special, he adds - for he remembers she liked it that way.
So when he had heard she had found somebody else, he follows his instinct: to make another song out of her, to curate her beauty, as another remembrance (among several) that she was once his.
You are gone, gone, gone.
Here's to my last story for 2015. I don't know what it is with songs that give such clarity of my imagination when it comes to Mimato scenarios, especially angst-ridden ones. Anyway, this was also song-inspired by The 1975's 'Somebody Else'. The connection between the band (and their songs) and Mimato is just purely out of my butt. Happy New Year, everyone!