There was once a man who flew too high to the sun. Not the sun as you and I know it, it was a sun of his own making, the distant light of intellect that he wished with all his heart to grasp for, but always seemed obscured by the darkness that he carried inside of himself. He was 29 years old when he chose to soar into the sky, to search for the brightness he couldn’t find in his life.
He built his wings off the backs of philosophers like Rousseau and Voltaire, philosophers who revealed the contradictions of his soul. On one side, he embodied the passion for humanity, the yearning for freedom of the former. On the other side, he embraced the unshakeable belief that unchecked optimism was something to laugh at, as the latter intended.
Painfully aware of the contradictions, the man found relief in the sky. The closer he got to the sun, the closer he got to himself. His true self. The self that wanted to live with such intensity that he could die without regret. But in the back of his mind, he couldn’t shake the image of being a comic puppet, dangling by the strings of the universe. For a fleeting moment, he’d been cut free, and all the responsibilities of his life seemed so small and inconsequential, somewhere far below him. His aunt. His wife. His children. His family. They were all very far away.
He didn’t know how long he went on flying. Or if he ever reached the sun. The wind screeched in his ears and a single thought flashed through his mind: It is unfortunate for the gods that, unlike us, they cannot commit suicide.
Continue reading “The Father Of Japanese Short Stories & The Man-Made Wings Of Mental Health”
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