Akira, Jacky, Kage and Lion before the anime.
“Show Me the Meaning of Being Lonely” by Max Martin and Herbert Crichlow, part of the Backstreet Boys album Millennium. Lyrics and music copyright 1999 Zomba Recording Corporation.
Virtua Fighter is copyright of Sega and others.
Show Me The Meaning of Being Lonely
by Shi
Show me the meaning of being lonely
Akira
I sometimes wonder if asking for forgiveness amounts to anything in my life.
It is what I always do when I goof up, like when I stumble over someone’s feet or unintentionally bump into a person. A normal thing to do, making mistakes. The best way to atone for them, always, is to apologize. To admit that you have done wrong.
I have done that already. I have accepted that I made the biggest mistake in my life by letting the fame and hype of being touted as Japan’s best youngblood tournament fighter get into my head. I have been ready to face the consequences, to pay my dues, for the wrong that I had done.
I have admitted all these so many times, maybe as many as the stars in the sky.
I have asked for forgiveness, expressed my regret in the deep-rooted prayers that only my soul could say.
But why doesn’t anybody listen?
Why can’t I still see the stars?
So many words for the broken heart
It’s hard to see in a crimson love
So hard to breathe
Walk with me, and maybe
Nights of light so soon become
Wild and free I could feel the sun
Your every wish will be done
Jacky
I always wonder why I let her come with me.
It was a very selfish thing to do on my part, to allow her to leave behind the life she knew so well to live one wherein we have to worry where we would be getting our next meal.
I knew way back then that I was going to be a race car driver, ever since I could say the word “car.” Maybe before that. Sometimes I think the need for the rush of driving has been in my blood ever since I was born.
A need so strong that I lived and breathed nothing else.
“Jacky?”
The voice interrupts my thoughts and I turn towards it. Maybe it is my guilt that makes my head whip around so quickly, causing the arid countryside air to sting my eyes.
We have been traveling southward for the past few days, from Washington State towards Los Angeles. Sarah and I received an offer to become spokespersons for Smile Steak, and we have to be in the opening of the restaurant’s Chinatown location. The owner promised a generous allowance to sustain me through the indy race that would be taking place in New Las Vegas a week or so from now.
An allowance means gas for the trailer, food for my sister and myself, and an assurance that we won’t be crawling back to the big house as prodigals do in Bible stories.
“Yeah?”
“You look like you’re ready to attack the chili.”
Her eyes, blue like my own, sparkle against the semi-darkness as she graces on me one of her gentle smiles. She scoots off the caravan’s platform and goes to stand beside me. I am by our makeshift grill, preparing dinner from a ready-to-cook chili mix. We have discovered a little while back that cooking our own food and camping out in the trailer were better than spending our money on roadside diners and motels.
“Do I?” I attempt a grin. “Maybe I’m just psyching myself up for the New Las Vegas race. Always pays to have a ‘tude going when you enter the track.”
She removes the ladle from my hand and begins to stir the chili. She wrinkles her nose. “Bleah.”
I frown. “Smells that bad, huh?”
She makes a face. “Nah. You can’t always tell by the smell, y’know.” She scoops up a tiny stream of the brown-red mixture and lifts it to her lips. She tastes it.
“Well?”
“It’s actually pretty good, like a liquid chili burger patty.”
I look at her as she says assurance after assurance that everything is all right, that our food is still fit for people, that we are still in control of our destiny.
That the future is one to always look forward to.
Why do I get the feeling I took her away from her own dreams?
They tell me
Show me the meaning of being lonely
Is this the feeling I need to walk with?
Tell me why I can’t be there where you are
There’s something missing in my heart
Kage
It is enough that I am alone.
I find myself asking for nothing else lately.
For the better part of the past month, I have been traveling all over the West, between the United States and Europe. There were always people. They talked and laughed and got angry. They cared and argued about so many things that I could not quite remember.
Unimportant things, I suppose.
My Hagakure-ryu sensei once told me that the true warrior only allows the things that really matter into his mind, and filters out everything else. That was how a fighter acquired clarity of thought and unmarred focus, both of which are necessary for channeling one’s spirit-energy into unrivaled strength and lightning movement.
This I still recall so clearly.
The air is cool on my face as I open the sliding doors of the nondescript hotel room and step out onto the narrow balcony. It is already evening, and the surrounding buildings’ neon lights are fired up and well into their play with the shadows. I walk over to the railing and lean against the concrete, shifting my weight to ease the tension that is in my body.
I have always liked standing beneath the night sky. Now, I find the experience marred with the glaring gaudy colors of the city strobes. There is no more light pouring down from the heavens, merely small, seemingly useless dots of illumination against a dark blue-black canopy.
People always made it a habit to outdo everything else that they did not make. But there is no reason for me condemn them for thinking they could make certain things more useful, more powerful, or more beautiful.
Nor could I condemn myself for always thinking that I could even be stronger. For always making demands on my body and soul to cope with secrets and techniques that most would not dare learn.
It is no different.
Life goes on as it never ends
Eyes of stone observe the trends
They never say forever gaze
Lion
Fifteen minutes ago, I entered the dining hall.
It was empty. Save for the five-course dinner that was meticulously spread out on one-half of the long mahogany table, the room played host to no one else. There was a full meal setting waiting at one end. Waiting for me.
Now, I leave the dining room after I have signalled through the bellpull that I was done eating. I take no coffee like my father does.
I am supposed to head for my private study upstairs, where Charlotte or Mareno or both of them would then come to give me a briefing on my activities for the next day. A lecture here, a convention there, maybe a benefit event or two. Routine stuff, where I always have to dress in choking suits that I must keep impeccably clean, smile the princely smile that makes me gag in the mirror, and say hello and express my father’s regards.
You must behave and act like a proper heir to the Rafale Corporation.
What do they really mean when they say things like that? I don’t have to behave or act like anything anymore; all I have to do is follow their schedules and etiquette and rules and I come out a complete mindless masterpiece after they are through.
Absolutely no effort on my part, when you come to think of it.
Why don’t they just say I become their puppet so everyone else would be pleased?
I try to stem the rising irritation in my chest. It jousts with the dinner churning around in my stomach as I make my way into the Gothic-inspired garden that is just by the dining hall terrace. My feet begin to take me to a spot close to an old stone fountain. I always go to this area when I like to spend a few moments by myself.
No one rarely ever sees me in this place, especially at night. Sometimes I practice my Torou-ken here, between the stone benches and the fanning spread of trimmed bushes. The moonlight and darkness always do this dreamlike dance that never fails to bring a measure of peace to my mind.
I arrive by the fountain and the bright beams of the moon illuminate the fountain statue. A cherub with curling hair, carrying a large jar from which grayish water continuously pours forth.
A youth with a burden, encased in stone for eternity.
Guilty roads to an endless love
There’s no control
Are you with me now
Your every wish will be done
Akira
“Hey, son, can you tell there’s gonna be a storm, too?”
A scratchy voice makes my feet pull to a quick stop. I look around and realize I am in a run-down neighborhood in this city called Los Angeles. Someone on the boat with me once explained that it was Spanish for “the angels.” I find it beautiful. Angels belong to heaven, as stars do.
Perhaps in this city of angels, I would also find my stars.
My eyes settle on two elderly men sitting on the front steps of a gray concrete building. They are dressed in heavily-mended thick coats, with torn woven caps on their heads. They both hold brown paper bags. Something is in those bags, most probably a tall bottle. The two of them look as if they are straight out of those Hollywood movies, characters called bums. Or something.
“I…” My voice trails off as I look from one old face to another, both with identical expectant expressions. I do not even know which one of them had asked me the question. I stand uncertainly on the sidewalk for a few moments, shifting my traveling satchel from one shoulder to another. “Um, uh, I’m not sure. Sirs.”
“Heh,” says the man to my right. His voice is not the one that called out to me moments before, so I figure it was his companion. “You answer when you ain’t even looked up at the sky, sonny.” He raises bushy eyebrows at me.
I stare blankly back.
“Look at the sky, sonny,” says the other elderly man. “Only way to tell anythin’ for sure these days is to look at it.” He points a finger upward.
I look up. Dimly, I hear them jabbering amongst themselves.
“I say it’s gonna rain, Bobby. There’s gonna be one big momma of a storm comin’ in a day or two. The clouds are angry, man. Cain’t you see that?”
“Looks pretty clear to me, Ed,” snarls the one with the bushy eyebrows. “‘Pears to me you jus’ need another round of strawberry ripple. There ain’t gonna be no storm.”
The sky.
The dark velvet blanket spread out all over us is all aglow with constellations. I can count these stars up to three hundred at times, even more. In quick intervals, tiny masses of clouds would scuttle to and fro, obscuring the Big Dipper this moment, then Orion the next. And so on.
A storm?
A storm is coming when the air is thick and sticky, or when the stars could not be mostly seen.
But my cares go beyond these.
How can I tell these men that I am searching for something more than signs of a storm?
I tear my gaze away from the sky. It isn’t daytime. If it is daytime, I wonder if I could still see what I am looking for.
But I could always hope, can’t I?
“Well, boy?” asks Bushy Eyebrows.
I find myself mimicking him. “There ain’t gonna be no storm, sir.” A smile forms on my lips before I could actually feel it. “But who am I to say for sure?”
They tell me
Show me the meaning of being lonely
Is this the feeling I need to walk with?
Tell me why I can’t be there where you are
There’s something missing in my heart
Jacky
The chili was a bad idea. I really should have listened to her and gotten instant noodles. It would have been less heavy on the stomach.
My watch says past midnight but I still couldn’t sleep. I shift the angle of my back on the sleeping bag that I had spread out on the caravan’s floor. Through the square windows of the trailer, I see the night sky blinking at so many spots alternately, rhythmitically, like random musical Christmas lights. These lights blink to an unknown inner tune only they could hear.
I could never figure Nature out. It was a mixture of so many strange patterns. This applied to plenty of other things as well, like people and parents and supportive sisters.
I understand cars better, maybe that is the reason why I was drawn to the machine and all its incarnations. Cars ran well when fully tuned up, gave out when they have defective parts. Cars have no secrets, no motivations. They are always under the care of their owners, at the mercy of their drivers.
I could fully control a car, for the most part.
Maybe I try so hard to do the same thing with my life. When I was in the big house, it had always been their rules, their circles, their businesses, their dreams. Sarah and I always have to follow and keep up with the life associated with being a Bryant.
It is not much of a life to speak about.
There is nothing to fight for, not much to prove about yourself. It is always the name looming above everything else. There is no identity, just a proverbial coat of arms that immediately brings respect.
I am lucky to have her, someone who understands and cares enough to sacrifice all our past luxuries for a dream. Maybe a foolish dream at that.
My foolish dream.
Sarah stirs on the cushioned back seat and pushes blond hair out of her face as she leans down to check on me. I meet her bleary eyes with my own unsleeping ones.
“Jacky? Are you okay?”
I realize my hands are clenched into fists on the edge of the sleeping bag. Sheepishly, I loosen my grip.
I have been trying hard to convince myself that we are doing the right thing, as I always do.
I want to tell her this, but I know she would just say those reassuring words, to convince me that it was not difficult for her to keep on living the way we are now.
“Sarah.” I reach out and touch her shoulder. “Thank you. For everything.”
There’s nowhere to run
I have no place to go
Surrender my heart, body and soul
How can it be you’re asking me to feel the things you never show
Kage
The air is a little humid and it leaves a sticky feeling on my face, like a nagging memory.
I remember that the skin patch is still on. Reaching up, I slowly peel away the prosthetic item that I use to cover the scar on my left cheek. It cut a jagged line along the cheekbone, a glaring red-white eye-catcher if I ever saw one.
In my hands, the fake skin looks wilted, like a dead, dried petal.
People used to stare at the scar, when I still have not come up with the idea of covering that part of my face. Unnecessary attention is the worst thing in the world to have, especially when you are the tenth generation sworn to work in secret in the shadows of society.
The creed is a little rusty, wrought from several centuries past, straight out of the ideals of the bushido. But Kage-Maru always has to live by that creed, no matter the time, the place or the situation.
No matter who he is.
I have no right to stray away from that. It had taken years upon years of training, then test after test to prove my true worth. In the end, seemingly thinking that I faced my true destiny at long last, I find myself facing a greater void.
My own heart. It always gets harder and harder to claim my grip on it, the way everything else must be put forth before I could listen to my own self speaking. The creed of Hagakure spoke in my mind, not those nine men who came before me. We were all faceless vessels, all those who assumed the mantle of the shadow warrior.
We do not even have names of our own anymore.
That is why it is always best for me to be alone. It is best for me not to know what else I did not and could never have.
You are missing in my heart
Tell me why I can’t be there where you are
Lion
I walk over to the cherub and put my hand on the large jar he was carrying.
Feeling a little unsettled, I say to him, “Would you like me to help?”
Then I smile in the semi-darkness, remembering how many times I have asked him the exact same thing in the past, ever since I was a child. I always have sympathy in my heart for that statue.
As always, I expect no response. I try to look deep into the granite hollows that are his eyes, for any sign of pain or continuing insistent struggle against the burden that spilled seemingly endless streams of water.
But no. The cherub’s smooth, roundish face is carefully impassive, as always.
Nothing in my memory contests this.
Statues don’t change, I taunt myself, uselessly.
For a few moments, I listen to the steady cadence of water being poured onto a moderately deep pool and look unblinking at the expressionless youthful face that was responsible for maintaining this nigh-eternal balance between strength, beauty and sacrifice.
What is he doing this for?
I have no idea what drove the sculptor to create such a figure. It could be this was what he felt like inside, forever entrusted with a task, a heavy responsibility that must be fulfilled rather than escaped from.
I feel a deep breath slithering out of my lungs, making my shoulders heave.
I hear the words leave my mouth, as I stare steadily at the statue’s lowered, submissive eyes.
“Things will change for all of us. Maybe not now, or tomorrow. But they sure will someday.”
I turn to leave the garden, as I am running late for my daily debriefing. Before I walk down the path that will take me away from the fountain’s abode, I look over my shoulder, back towards my silent stone companion.
Maybe at one time he thought like I did now.
Someday.
Things will change.
For all of us.
Show me the meaning of being lonely
Is this the feeling I need to walk with?
Tell me why I can’t be there where you are
There’s something missing in my heart
Akira
It is sunrise when I start my walk towards Chinatown.
The nice people who welcomed me into downtown youth hostel last night suggested that I take this bus and then that other bus and so on. It got all so confusing, I decided that a walk would be best.
They really were nice people. They had lots of soup to eat, in many different flavors, and they all lived together like they do in the dojos back home. To grow up and learn together…with friends.
It is always nice to have friends, people with whom to share bits and pieces of your life.
In my travels, I have met all sorts of people, all over Asia and now the West, but never long enough for me to get to know them as well as I wished.
Back home, when I still competed, I used to regard every person as another opponent to be defeated, someone in my way to being the best there is.
Thus I lost sight of my stars.
It is that simple.
Grandfather always said things to that extent, but I have been too stubborn, too cocky to listen and understand. I wish he would come to realize that the regret and loss I feel in my heart are so true, they sometimes hurt. These are no longer the remnants of a shattered, once-bloated ego.
This is the real me, seeking my true soul.
I pull the satchel closer to my body and wonder if Chinatown serves less expensive food.
I look up at the day sky and make my first pact with it.
When it is time, you will show my stars to me again.
The sunbeams immediately feel warmer on my face, alongside with the brightening fiery-amber glory of the sunrise. I have no doubt the greater powers have just made an unspoken yet strangely clear answer to my declaration.
When it is time, you will be ready to face your true destiny.
I know, deep in my heart, that I will be.
Image courtesy of Rafael Barquero @ Unsplash
