i am wrong to exist
21:28。
i am probably broken in the head, so i dive again into a possible posthumous spin-off scenario… imagining myself doing yakuza-like dealings with intelligent criminals who left trauma behind.
first, i tried to think positively about what “reheating” or “burning it down and remaking it” really meant.
back then, i never understood why the boss had to “taste-test” first. but now, while hiding indoors as loneliness and humiliation keep accelerating, caught between the old yakuza mentality and the strangely overprotective younger generations… i feel like, if i were the one carrying things after death, i would test it myself.
one guy was genuinely better than me at wordplay and english. sadly, if we went to negotiations together, he would probably outperform me completely. maybe my only edge was recognizing atmospheres, chemicals, and subtle danger signs… but even that became meaningless once he had children.
another guy slapped me once. i kicked back and his nose exploded like a fountain. then the school started talking about suspension, turning myself in, dropping out. apparently that “victim” later entered tokyo university. i entered university through an easy ao route instead.
so what does intelligence even mean?
lately it feels like people around me cannot be satisfied with ordinary happiness anymore. they only chase stimulation.
sometimes i think maybe i should just stay with my inner friends instead. a gang led by girls feels more peaceful somehow.
yuyuu and ryukari.
only two members.
the old rule system was simple: choose three items first, gain experience and money, then unlock the fourth.
back then i picked:
meth.
meth.
and contomin.
the trauma-side enemies in my imagination were smarter though. i imagined them hiring people, manipulating cryptocurrency, winning through realistic methods.
yuyuu would probably use pink-themed ghost-smoke aesthetics. gas masks, ghost puffs, sweet smoke.
ryukari would be purple. a shikigami user. chemicals, reagents, strange synthetic names. unstable purple more than natural lavender.
but honestly… maybe i do not even care about the substances themselves.
maybe i only cared about the names.
dangerous sounding names.
urban legend branding.
secret society vocabulary.
so maybe it is better if everything is original.
methylphenidate.
high-density ephedrine.
mysterious stimulants.
just arranging dangerous sounding words to build a world.
old magazines like men’s knuckle or shady convenience-store occult tabloids probably burned themselves into me.
still… reality exhausted me.
fifteen years of psychiatric drugs.
extended release pills.
suicidal thoughts.
sleepless nights.
yet nobody seriously discussed nutrition, tryptophan, or gentler approaches.
sometimes i wonder if there could have been another path.
inside my head, everything mixes together now:
yakuza stories,
urban legends,
noise music,
ghosts,
women,
band culture,
delay effects like lightning,
flangers,
drug folklore,
ambient echoes.
and somewhere in the middle of that chaos exists “souvenir-from-the-afterlife-chan.”
white funeral clothes.
strangely erotic underwear.
long hair that slowly absorbs emotion and vitality.
a tsukumogami.
a ghost.
an echo.
i no longer know.
only the drumbeat echoing inside my skull still feels real.
the new girl can apparently use sound attributes. maybe after death there are infinite niche routes anyway, and hologram audiences are enough.
today too, i heard ugly noises coming from what is supposedly just a model room nearby.
if i say that out loud, people attack me. as if that is justice.
maybe becoming “less human” is simply how dropouts survive.
still, i want to turn these scraps into tiny chant-like fragments i can reread later.
because for a moment, they let me forget the endless heat and noise.
sometimes i feel like all i can do is throw pieces of fish cake at the world.
voices say “fuck yeah,” then disappear the next day, while i remain here like an ornament.
sometimes i wonder whether my life is just steaming doodles in a notebook.
half-finished clay dolls.
static.
noise.
22:17.
i suddenly remembered an older man who trained me as a decoy.
why place someone meaningless like me in the middle of enemy territory?
during hospitalization i saw an old man whose voice seemed transplanted into him somehow. he smiled constantly. all he said was “boee…”
maybe one strike only mattered because of my social position.
maybe not.
the imaginary sanatorium already collapsed anyway.
there is a beeping sound from upstairs or next door.
perhaps i really am just a target of ridicule.
even death feels too merciful sometimes.
yet if i ever saw enma’s palace for real, i would probably launch a full assault and run.
because the lectures there would only double forever.
apparently demons exist.
meanwhile fake humans and script-following chemical meatbags keep suffering over tiny stagnant emotions they call unbearable.
that is probably why tsukumogami inhabit people.
maybe “narou-style stories” always required becoming something else.
dropouts apparently are not allowed to die yet.
sleep sounds easier.
