mishima

I have finally watched Mishima: A Life in Four Chapters - as part of a course I am taking this semester. Truthfully the most engaged I have been in a course, in a long while. The film itself was a treat to the eyes and to the mind, an elixir of man's art and torture. I do not wish to say "that is so me", however I cannot help but relate his sacrifice to art akin to my own struggles. Yukio Mishima was a pained artist, a complete nihilist and dreamer, but a pure artist. A pure artist is not restricted to good or bad, as in me saying someone is a pure artist is neither a complete compliment nor an insult, it's a label given to those who act to the fullest extent. I, too, expressed this feeling of emptiness as Mishima had reaching the end of his life, when his decision of dying partly because the pen was so heavy it became a sword, and then another part of his soul with fire and teeth reigned control over his story. His life is not entirely romantic in my eyes - very much a tragedy but tinted in reds and golds, as the film portrayed in such a fantastic manner, pleasing, even. 

I too have experienced this sense of loss in the last few years, really ever since i began my college journey. I felt a loss of meaning with my deteriorating wrist and a draining motivation to create - the descriptor of myself since childhood. I was always the artist in my circle of blood and brought people, friends and family all recognized me through what I produced, they were attached to the body that could make lines that pleased them enough to reappear in my life again and again. But now I too have been mingling with death so often I am more alive in the thought of dying. I too have made grand speeches those I love on a plastic balcony. Either the balcony on their beds, on the tables in a orchestral lunchroom or muffled against the warmth of skin. Even now the many instances I have uploaded my tidal wave of word salads fueled by the bitter dressing of my pent-up emotions, ripe to squeeze every last drop into something worth reading. 

Alas, as Mishima had said, I don't think they ever heard me. 

I've been weighed down by the time of four months and my mind feels weaker. Progress to improve myself is shortened again, and the motivation to involve myself in my studies fades like poor matches. A bright, burning flame, then nothing. Discarded and crushed under the heal of a executioner that sentences me to the death of my bed, where I rot until I am re-animated by some cruel God that likes to watch my miserable show of lethargy and aching. There's an acidic taste in my mouth and other bodies I know of feel stale and rough, like cardboard. I think I'm losing my battle to be what I've watched in the mirror.

In 18 days I will have shed a year's worth of existence onto the pile, and my physical existence will have stained another complete cycle into the biosphere. There's been a repeated pattern where the urge to die grows strongest on this day, maybe because I am the walking embodiment two people's desire for company. 

Being a youth in college is a strange experience. The body and mind are both steeped in the fountain of youth yet the water is drying with every day. I am both responsible for my duties as a socially bound member of society yet I am still accepted as a child. 

Anyway.