The Ghost In My Room.
Thursday, July 03, 2003 5:35:22 PM
hidoko Matsumoto
This short piece of prose is written for My Life is a Cigarette, which is unfinished, and almost unrelated.

Sex. Drugs. And rock and roll.
I inhale my cigarette, and laugh. He wasn't the only one who did it. There were many before him—who sucked things that looked like red pepper powder.
No, he wasn't the only one. Even I tried it. And it felt good, to say the least.
I felt alive.
Those few days, I had been stuck in my room, playing my guitar. Playing and playing, as if my fingers would grow long from that. Maybe not.
Maybe not.
And I lay on my bed.

I talked to him. I told him, "I'm going insane. Why can't I kill myself?" And then I added, silently, because one must be schizophrenic in order to talk aloud to nobody in particular, "Particularly since life has worn me out?"
J'mappelle Hyde.
Au revoir…

How do you pronounce this?
Wok? She had laughed. A – Wak.

I hate being a Japanese. I hate being unable to express myself the way they do. I hate it, I hate it, I hate it.

I hate being a Japanese.
I hate being me.

Not because I'm Japanese, but because they're me.
I told him yes.

Words cannot describe how happy I was to see him.

To hear him. To be able to talk to him, again, even if it was a mistake.
I've counted my blessings and tokens as I was falling asleep.

I liked the name Lucky. It reminds me of L'Arc. Rainbow.
I told them that my band was called rainbow.

The gardens were green there. They weren't quite as pruned, and they looked natural. Not stale.

They laughed. Did you have a special meaning for it?
I laughed. It's a coincidence.

Yes. A coincidence that we happen to be gay. Except we can't say aloud how proud we are of it, because we're not.

I hate being Japanese—hate, hate, hate—

And my mind went berserk.
Do you know what it's like, to go berserk? To go insane? Off your rockers?
I felt alive.

So I talked to the ghost. He didn't say anything that I could hear. But he was the only one who was there, and he understood.

I cut myself, but not very deeply. There wasn't even any blood.

If that is what life is, I would rather not live.

But I was cutting too deeply, so I stopped. And it just won't bleed. My blade just won't go in any further.

I inhaled, exhaled. I pictured myself running.
Away. Anywhere.

The air in Taiwan was hot.
Fucking hot. When I was there, I felt myself sweating, and I felt as if I was bursting. As if I would swim into the air any moment and escape from my body.

Anywhere.

Even there.

But I ended up at his side.

Damnit, I can't speak—
But I don't hate all Japanese. Because he's a Japanese, too. I just hate the fact that we are the way we are, because—

Maybe he had a special meaning for it…………… Maybe he knew.
Because when we lay in bed, he told me so. I'd laughed and cuddled him and said it was great.

Like a young girl. So much like a young girl. He looks nothing like it, true—

But if you know a person well enough, you start to see them for what they are.
But he's not really a young girl. He looks nothing like it. He is nothing like it. Even though, sometimes, my eyes mistake him for being a young girl—

And sometimes, you know a person well enough; you know their soul.

I know his soul. It's still the same.
If only I knew.

I'm still sane, maybe.
He's still the same, walking towards me from a distance, looking flustered, Hacchan.

I didn't want to say I'm sorry for being late. So I didn't say anything. As usual, I was afraid that he'd bring it up. Sometimes he does.

But he smiled, as if it was all right since I was there. As if all the frustration of waiting didn't matter to him, even though he really did look like he was about to burst at that point in time. You're here. Come on, we can start.

We buried our past like never before.

I wanted to tell him that I was going insane. That I saw a nurturing presence that has merely fed the darkness in my room.

That—

That it was painful.
It was too painful. Too fucking painful to look back.

The name had a meaning after all. Rainbow.
And he was such a colourful person—

I inhaled. Exhaled. And started smoking. And smoked and smoked and smoked and smoked and—

I pictured my lungs going black. Maybe I'd die that way. I don't mind dying, if it means comfort.

My heart was beating as I pictured myself running.

Away. From life.

He rang the doorbell; I didn't answer. So he knocked. And he knocked.

I cursed, and ran towards the door, to be greeted by sunshine.

This is my salvation!

I was nearby, so I thought… Don't you go to that video store anymore?
I smiled. Even though we can't be—

Even though stale love doesn't change into luxuriance—
Never did I feel so alive.