[ Dazai is silent for awhile. His expression alters, and his eyes seem to regard the other out of many thousands of years; any feelings he might express or words he could utter seem altogether inadequate.He lifts one hand up instead, placing it atop Odasaku's head and stroking his hair the way that a mother might when soothing her child.
There are countless words. There are too many, none quite right, none that promise to be free from the possibility of rejection.
Dazai nods. ]
... You don't want to die, [ He adds to the answer, voice low, ] You didn't want to die before either. "I want to die" and "I don't want to live" are two different things.
[ Dazai wants to die. His comments are treated like a joke. People hardly believe him when he says that he won't come back. He will not though, because from the moment he was born he was already dead. He was never meant to live at all.
He knows better than anyone how frightening it is, how unbearably painful it is, but nothing of what it means to have "worth." It's all just which proves to be more frightening.
If he digs into the recesses of his memories, Dazai thinks that he can remember somebody finding comfort in this sort of gesture - somebody running their had through his hair, speaking softly, but he's not sure. Much of his life has slipped through the cracks, and there's only so much that he can recall from before he found himself living in a storage container. But that's not his focus. ]
If the world were a righteous place, then people who still have stories they wish to share with others could do so and people who wish for sleep would be granted it. There's nothing so kind in any world though.
[ He takes his hand back, resting it on his lap once more. It's not a lecture, but rather a simple statement of his feelings, as it's only those around him that have assigned such great value to his life.
Dazai looks down, uncertainty coloring his features, ]
You're here now. You have people who would be saddened by your disappearance. That's all that really matters.
cw: suicide
There are countless words. There are too many, none quite right, none that promise to be free from the possibility of rejection.
Dazai nods. ]
... You don't want to die, [ He adds to the answer, voice low, ] You didn't want to die before either. "I want to die" and "I don't want to live" are two different things.
[ Dazai wants to die. His comments are treated like a joke. People hardly believe him when he says that he won't come back. He will not though, because from the moment he was born he was already dead. He was never meant to live at all.
He knows better than anyone how frightening it is, how unbearably painful it is, but nothing of what it means to have "worth." It's all just which proves to be more frightening.
If he digs into the recesses of his memories, Dazai thinks that he can remember somebody finding comfort in this sort of gesture - somebody running their had through his hair, speaking softly, but he's not sure. Much of his life has slipped through the cracks, and there's only so much that he can recall from before he found himself living in a storage container. But that's not his focus. ]
If the world were a righteous place, then people who still have stories they wish to share with others could do so and people who wish for sleep would be granted it. There's nothing so kind in any world though.
[ He takes his hand back, resting it on his lap once more. It's not a lecture, but rather a simple statement of his feelings, as it's only those around him that have assigned such great value to his life.
Dazai looks down, uncertainty coloring his features, ]
You're here now. You have people who would be saddened by your disappearance. That's all that really matters.