There a lot of things you are taught to know, Ino has come to realize, but you are not taught to understand.
Like, for instance, they teach you to know all about good acoustics in choir, which you only signed up for because your best friend, Sakura, refused to go alone, even though she has a vocal range bigger than her forehead and besides, you're no good at singing anyway; for instance, they mention good acoustics in choir,
but, you don't really understand
until you're hunched over that
in the first floor girls bathroom,
willing that disgusting
sandwich to defy gravity with all of your mind—or, at least, the part that isn't busy
worrying, waiting for someone to step
into the deserted chamber
you're imagining the feeling of
on your back, which is starting to hurt because you've been hunched over that fucking white-smudged-with-grime
toilet for hours, or maybe
It's an odd feeling, a foreign sense of power and helplessness at the same time. Power, because you are capable of so much noise and so much silence, can shake a room, and in that moment, that room is the entire world, the entire universe, and yet you are helpless to how the world closes in on you.
It's an odd, but no longer foreign feeling, and you want to get out, need to get out. The grimy walls are approaching like lost and dirtied angels, and the toilet is growing, larger and larger, as you pour yourself into it, powerfully, helplessless. The ceilings are dropping and the floors are rising alike and the sinks and the mirrors behind them are drawing closer and closer to your protruding backbone, you can feel it like the wind, like gravity.
The sinks are drawing closer, and the mirrors behind them, and you brace your protruding backbone for contact as you back out of the stall, but you dare not urn around, to the sinks, but especially the mirrors, because the image they bear bites more than the wind and even gravity. Instead you look at the white-smudged with-grime, tile floor and you write your thoughts on pieces of parchment that float aimlessly inside your head and then burn those pieces of parchment, and you tear the remaining particles of ash into tiny pieces, and then you tear those particles into pieces, and then you tear those particles into pieces, and those those those those those, and the tears drip even harder and more pathetically because it doesn't end, not ever, ever, ever...
You write your thoughts on pieces of parchment in the second person, repetitive: a tirade, or was it a seranade?
It rolls off the tongue, heavy and raw in your mouth, awkwardly and ungracefully. Everything you tried not to be. And failed.
But, at least, that way,