DISCLAIMER
I do not own Naruto. The original work belongs to Masashi Kishimoto.
CAUTION: Reader’s Beware
This work of fiction contains highly disturbing elements such as; torture, maiming, murder, arson, crude language, profanity, depravity, mutilation, warmongering, gaslighting, self-harm, suicide, abusive substances, etc.
Rated 18: For Mature Audiences only. Read at your peril…
SOMETHING in the way we existed—forgotten, broken beings, bare to the bones as souls lost to the Styx—changed. Our perception, catatonic, locked against the emptiness of the void; a flare of desperation for a not-second ‘til a kindling of reality emerged again. Calming. Our memory laid bare; a flimsy string stretched unto infinity. Our heart without a beat; eroded; nonexistent; then not; the cycle unending; until it was not.
Then, of course, our body was bound to the harsh geometry of language; our existence a singularity for the first time in what felt like aeons; leaving behind the structureless non-sequitur of meaning with which we roamed freely through open planes devoid of colour or concept. Awareness came as a blow to the soul; we vividly remember the first conscious moments of our mortal life being filled with a feeling of near-perpetual dread and existential angst. Long before our untempered vocal cords could form coherent words; before the fuzzy haze in our vision cleared; before the turbulent ensembles of emotions that assailed us on a near-constant basis disappeared. A myriad of questions swam through our mind even as our human guardians—ginormous as they were back then—made nonsensical noises at us from where they were poised at the edge of our crib.
Why? We would cry out, fearful gaze roving the world around us. Who? What? Where?
In those moments in which our physical vulnerability became most apparent, we would wonder what resistance our feeble form could present in the face of the hostile universe around us. For a long time—at least until sheer rationality won out—the loneliness, despair and feeling of insignificance were utterly maddening, slowly chipping away at our feeble mind, siphoning at its core, and eroding our s͚͍̘̠̖̣͙̰̖a̺͈͕̜͎ͅn͎̞̯̖̦i̟̫̹̼͍t̞̯y̱ͅ.
Then as suddenly as these emotions came, they dispersed, leaving us weary, listless and confused. No longer concerned about our imminent demise or bodily harm did we discover the potent essence of ennui; the mortal’s perception of time utterly torturous. Attempts at deciphering our progenitors’ rather primitive communications only went so far in keeping us engaged. With time though, we grew larger and stronger and soon found ourself capable of some locomotion, serving the purpose of granting us a limit of autonomy. It was then, upon crawling out of the confines of our parents’ domicile did we first see the full extent of the world we found ourself in; a rather unremarkable sight it was; disappointing.
Despite our failed expectations—not that we could say for certain what said expectations were—we did truly appreciate its beauty, the apparent simplicity of it all; bewitching in a myriad of simple ways. Hours a day we would spend pondering on matters of the mundane from our post on the tatami mat by the door, Mother having left the shoji open for our convenience; her caring, ever-watchful eyes trained on us from the periphery of her vision.
We grew larger still, and soon graduated from watching trees sway hypnotically in the breeze, or clan members busying themselves with training and mundane work to occasionally shadowing Itachi on minor errands in the village or up the mountainous height that was the Hokage rock. On such trips, we would sometimes pause to marvel at the anomalous gravitas and sense of sobriety the distant skyline had on us. It was only then we realised that despite the might of our collective consciousness, we were but an insignificant speck in the heart of an organic machine tumbling along amongst its many, many gears. The mortality of our physical form fully ensured this. We could feel it, the inability of our human mind to properly host our ego. Our consciousness. It felt… restraining.
Every day, tens of thousands would tend to the contraption that was this village, living and toiling in it, serving the mechanism of the burgeoning metropolis, making it bigger, better, story by insignificant story and idea by jejune idea. On the days we toddled not on our brother’s trail, or spent hours staring in a ponderous haze as the world went through its phases, we pilfered father’s extensive collection, scouring through a myriad of scrolls in a never-ending quest for stimulation. In our free time, we would find ourself fixated on the oddest of things; the erratic flow of traffic through the clan’s district; the way the northern winds ruffled the iridescent plumage of ravens perched on the powerlines above; the twisting haze suspended in the air following the executing of a fire-based jutsu. Even rivets of sauce flowing down the length of a noodle hanging from a pair of chopsticks possessed the capacity to so fully enthralled us.
With time, life grew busier. Between training with Father, Brother and Shisui-kun we possessed less time to simply ponder in solitude, a pass time we had grown rather fond of. By the age of four, we had fully come to terms with the ineptness of the common man; any conversation we might have with most likely destined to be tedious and dim-witted, with social relations, in general, appalling and rote; both early tutelages in the recursive nature of the human experience.
Despite it all though, despite our many fears and recurring bouts of existential dread, we cherished our new existence; above all, we cherished the people in it.
