For a muse (amuse?)

The light. Bright. And boxes, lots of 'em.

At least she knew what she was talking about.

Sometimes I wish I do — the ending of Honey and Clover II was well and good but — the part about the boxes made me wonder. A limited lifespan. I can’t write everything there is to write unless I know what to write about them; and what do I know so far? Hardly any. Not much. So why am I bothering to that extent anyhow-

-unless it’d be for a muse. Is that (person) really?

It’s like those excuses to get yourself out of trouble, maybe more. For what this? For something so precious like you said to him, once; how you’d do anything to have that knowledge at the price of that afterlife, and that was what- three years ago? Then three years down the road when you’ve seen how low the other side goes, and you came back with what you know, that thirst for the knowledge of knowing’s there again.

Only this time it involves more than just yourself. A muse. Am I doing this for amusement, or do I really need one to write? “Human behaviour can be quantified”. The more I draw onto this thought the more tempting it becomes, and although it is true the rest doesn’t really seem to be. Because I’ll never be fair. And I don’t think I’m genuine.

Should one gain knowledge at the expense of another’s well-being? What if that knowledge never could be opened thus? Like gaining one’s love by flipping a switch that would kill another?

If you care for others because you want to forget, and by forgetting care for yourself is that caring anymore? I was told it only becomes sincere when you realise that you’re not doing it to forget but because you really want to care. And I do want to, I wouldn’t mind being like this since there’s still knowledge this way — yet I still find myself at the source.

Four years ago when writing that I knew nothing. Maybe it’s all well and good that I didn’t, because I still don’t.

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