On a morning such as this one, you would see a girl running an extra mile to keep a few pounds off, the heat of the activity saving her the effort of throwing on thick clothes. On such a fine afternoon where the soft rays of the sun is filtered by clouds, you will stop by the side of the road to gaze into the sea. When the winter breeze blows like this, you would think of the warmth of your home as you head home from work, a small grocery bag in your hands. As soon as you exit the convenience store, open 24/7, the lights and music of Christmas spirit will serve to remind you that another year is ending.

You probably wish you could have done better.

In a dog's eyes, the whole world is simply a maddening circus of flashing lights and extravagantly loud noises, where one person who had big dreams could be nothing more than another face in the crowd when he finished his metamorphosis. The owner tugs on its leash. They walk away.

What would an uncaring mother do if her child began to cry in the sidewalk, tripping over something as unassuming as her own shoelaces?

a) Leave the child be. It's not her business.
b) Scold the child. It's causing a commotion.
c) Simply drag it away. It'll stop soon enough.

She would probably have these choices, and yet she wouldn't do any of them. Instead, she would encircle the letter of the answer that was not on the paper in the first place. She would pick letter D, which was scribbled onto the sheet by the feeling of moral obligation she felt upon seeing an attractive businessman look her way.

d) Comfort the child. She deserves the love of a parent.

That's what she does, and despite the fact that she doesn't really want the child, this moment of self-deception manages to convince her that she's loved her mistake ever since, even after her husband left her for someone who had more cash than herself. Or was it just now? What if there were other moments of deception she had issued unto herself? Or what if her hatred was fabricated, and this event simply served to trigger the innate affection she has for her only daughter? She doesn't think about it. She chose option D.

If only we were all as uncaring as this mother, we wouldn't have to think about when, why, what, who, where, and how. If we simply believed the lie that was most convenient, we wouldn't have to struggle.

If a boy walks down the isolated road sipping a can of cola despite the cold weather, snow crunching under his shoes, what would be in his mind? There are quite a few options. Would he be thinking of the comfort under the kotatsu at home? Would he be thinking of dinner? Would he be thinking of how a girl from school passed by the shop where he worked part-time? It honestly depends. What would you know? You don't even know what he's wearing, where he lives, or if he actually has a part-time job. Or how old he is. Or what he told his mom this morning, or if he even does have a mother. You know absolutely nothing, and yet you pretend you have even a faint inkling of his identity.

Are you thinking about it yet? How wide the world is, how absolutely insignificant you are in a place of many, many broken dreams.

It was silly of a mere boy to think he could stand on top of the tallest building and tell everyone that he existed. Even as his mangled body lies cold in the snow, blood oozing from his split skull, there are only about a hundred people who have heard his song. The flashing red and blue lights drown among a million more yellows and greens as the whole world celebrates the evening before Christmas. The sirens and chatters are muffled by the wall that separates festivity and reality, and the soulless eyes that now stare up at the evening sky as the body is loaded into a stretcher, are left unseen by the 'everyone' that they had hoped to reach out to.

What was he even hoping for?

Redemption? Liberation? Repentance? What was this, an abject presentation of unworthy helplessness, or a freak show wherein he makes fun of the gods who apparently blessed him with a beating heart? Was it folly, or insanity? Or was it enlightenment?

No matter how many questions we have about the death of a boy whose blonde hair is reminiscent of the winter sunlight, whose skin is as obtrusively pallid as the savage frost of the north, we wouldn't be able to get a clear answer. We may get a few words from acquaintances or loved ones, but we will never hear the cries from the person himself, due to the simple fact that he is already dead. Although, the greater question is, why would we want to know? Do we even know him? Even so, we would surely express our sentiments of dissatisfaction and compassion by the time this incident would reach the news, be it the internet or the television, because it is an option scribbled on our papers by the moral obligation that the other gasps have stoked us with. And how sure are we that those reactions are also in their highest genuinity?

Or are we simply pretending that we are in a state of pretentiousness? This is difficult to answer. We can't remember how we were as infants, or how we were born. Or were we born with a personality at all? If a baby rarely cries, does that mean he is less humane than another, who wails day and night and keeps his parents up? Isn't it the other way around? What sort of evil would rob sleep from a pair of adults that had given their best efforts to keep it alive? But what if the parents are involved in shady business? Does the infant deliberately cry to bring them punishment, knowing how unworthy of leisure his mother and father actually are? Or his relatives? What if he was adopted? Switched? Do the feelings towards his actual parents remain, or are they replaced by the niceties of his aunt's family?

Will we ever know if we had known something that we now do not know?

What are we hoping for if we find out the truth? Is enlightenment truly a good thing, or is it better to stay in the island where our minds can rest easy, instead of venturing into the black sea that surrounds that piece of land? What will a yell of confirmation, a song of compensation, and a jump to finally feel unconstrained do when we aren't even aware of the answers to our own questions? Or is remaining oblivious the better option? What is infinity? What is oblivion? How sure are we that those two things aren't the same?

How would the cops find the boy's final note swimming in a flurry of business-related papers? How would they know he left one when he left it somewhere no one would bother to look? Now how would we know why he decided to plummet down to his oblivion, reminiscent of a descending swallow?

On a night such as this, you will feel the first drops of snow flutter from the heavens, and you will look up at the sky which the boy had spoken to before his untimely demise. And yet, you will still know nothing. A passing bicycle's bell rings cheerfully to the right, and at the other side you will hear a group of friends speaking about their dreams and visions of the future. Pipe dreams, wishful thinking. How you wished you could've stayed that way. But how sure are you that you know more than you did three years ago? How sure are you that your distaste for society and your way of living in general is not just a fabricated thought brought upon by the influence of another person's musings about this subject? If it's a scribbled choice which wasn't meant to be on your paper? If that person's complaints were also brought upon by this chain reaction?

Is there a truth to humanity, or is it simply an intricate artwork where the artist aims to achieve something higher than the gods themselves?

_____

alright. the end.

*confetti*

ok so um firstly this probably wasn't much of an olikase story because i never really intended for it to be fluffy and happy, and yes, i did always have in mind the minimal interaction between the meagre cast (which is honestly only comprised of two leads and a whole bunch of mobs lol), and the vague writing style.

which, probably, isn't going to help my readers understand any more of my works in the future if i keep writing this way— ehehehe—

i won't exactly be able to gauge the reactions for this whole book, so commenting is a huuuge yes (○ﾟεﾟ○)

uhhh wow i'm blanking out (i was blanking out while writing this entire chapter help), but before i completely run out of words, i'm probably just going to thank the small amount of audience this book managed to gather. i'm actually happy with 5 or even 3 views, assuming they're finished the whole thing. why, you say? boi, NO ONE i know irl would be interested in reading anything i write.

yes, i live like that.

anyways, the sole reason why i used oliver and fukase on this one is because... i generally suck at making my own characters— ahaha—

i wish the limited amount of time they had together in this story is adequate to show how much they were fond of each other, enough to think they didn't do a good enough job for the other party.

... that just makes me sound sadistic, but whatever.

annnywaaaysss, the basis of this plot is pretty complicated, so that, too, like the rest of this book, will remain a mystery. *swishes cape and jumps out the window for dramatic effect*

OH BTW I CAN'T BELIEVE THIS BOOK ENDED AND I ACTUALLY FINISHED IT— AHAHA

^ yes, that's how i actually am.

or is it? how sure are you that it isn't simply a reaction stirred by the choice scribbled on my paper— //kicked

>> thanks for reading <<