"You" and "I" are depressing terms. They are concepts that prove even the most intimate people cannot see or feel as one, for he is not you.
When they were very young, Kanon was unable to tell himself apart from Saga and never would use those words. If little Saga tripped and skinned a kneecap, little Kanon would cry on the side: "Kanon hurt." If little Kanon had homework he could not do, he would chew on his pencil with knitted brows and say, "Saga can't figure this out." Shion tried to correct him several times, but never with good result. Stubbornly, Kanon felt that Saga and he were the same person, no matter who was hurt or whose name was used. Saga did not mind at that time, and even liked it. Having a companion through pain and bliss was not bad.
Slowly, they grew to their teens. Saga's reaction to Kanon's confusion steadily elevated into irritation. He grew to love independence in living and abhorred the concept of a shared life. He began to distance himself from Kanon, training alone, going out alone, and never calling Kanon along to join whatever he was doing. And Kanon, when he couldn't find Saga, would throw a fit that shook not only the foundations of the Gemini House, but that of the entire Sanctuary.
Driven to distress, Saga asked: "What makes you think we are the same person? We're clearly not."
Kanon stared back with blank eyes.
Saga tried to smile and continued: "If I trip and fall, you don't actually feel it, you know?"
"I do," Kanon insisted.
"You do not," Saga steeled his voice. "You're hysteric. You want to believe so much that we are one that you pretend you feel it. It's a mental illness."
He watched as something shattered in Kanon's stunned eyes. A moment of hesitation passed, but he grit his teeth and continued: "Here's a number for a therapist. You should be seen."
With these words out, he turned and left. Kanon's pain was so thick and sharp in the air that he almost doubled back, to almost tell him that that was all just a joke. But he ruthlessly suppressed the desire and did not look back.
Behind him came the fearsome blast of an explosion, followed by the rumbling of stone columns collapsing.
Saga sighed. Of course, it's impossible to get rid of this life-sharing child. Why could he not understand? Each person was an individual who held his own stance, beliefs, and reason. It was impossible for two people to share the exact same consciousness.
From that day on, Kanon drew a clear line of division between the two. He never followed Saga again. They still lived in the same House, but the dynamic between had turned to animosity.
---- Excerpt from 惹是生非 by 寸寸, translated by yours truly.
Yes yes, I've turned to fanfics now that I've exhausted any supply of fanart. But the above hit a nerve that finally confirmed my longtime suspicions that I actually,
really, have a twins-fixation. Not the real life variety of whom I have all-too-much exposure (cough), but the idealized version found in fiction. As early as when I first started rounding up books to trade with that person half a year ago (already?), I noticed that both of my top choices involved twins as major devices: Esta and Rahel; Magid and Millat. Part of me wondered, then and there, what kind of vibe that might send a stranger about me.
And now, finally, somehow, it would happen that a
fanfic out of all things should be what pieces everything together:
I'm not into "twins" or twincest.
I'm not lonely for company.
I'm not even all that curious about reality outside of the limited perception of my "car."
What I am
is I'm in wild desperation of the fact that I
am alone in my consciousness. No matter how close I get to someone, the barrier of words/of skin/of non-intersectable space permanently blocks me, mentally and physically. This body is the prison that puts me under house arrest, isolated from the universe. This body is the barrier that limits my existence (confirmed in the eyes of others) to what I perform. The 90% of me that lies underneath, undetectable by performance, is apparently inconsequential. It is the lament of that 90% that surfaces as occasional pangs too-often mistaken for simple lonesome longings, or curiosity for potential freedom outside of this body.
Mythical, fictional twins always seem to at least somewhat address this issue.
Or it's all just a subconscious excuse for a rationalization of why I sport such a giant boner for myself.
