Sozin’s Comet.
火 — Fire.
地球 — Earth.
空気 — Air.
水 — Water.
Written in the veritable dunes of history long ago, man and spirit arose in coalescence. What was meant to be a veil between worlds acted intuitively as a point of conveyance from one life to the next.
It was The Avatar, master of all four elements, progenitor of peace and overseer of the world, who eventually saw the apertures in life's cloth left behind by the uncouth spirits plaguing the realm — it was in these flaws a stern belief embedded itself into the manifolds of his philosophy, where he predicted the only means for man & spirit to truly live in harmony was seclusion.
Raava admonished the malefic influence of her counterpart, Vaatu. The Avatar of their time, Avatar Wan, insisted on conjointing forces with Raava to defeat her antithesis, albeit impromptu, in a glorious attempt to savor the fleeting breaths of the spirit, and restore anew. He fought valiantly, merging with the mother of all elements, & prevailed in the end, locking Vaatu away within the Tree of Time: but as time progressed, the primeval battle of light and dark cyclically took effect, an infinite perpetuation of life before & after affliction sought evermore.
In the aftermath of the fated battle between good and evil, Avatar Wan, having defeated the root of malevolence, sealed the spirit portals shut, hopeful in never needlessly opening them again...
20,000 years have passed since then. Ancient times mentioned in requiem with the rare emergence of spirits, disappearing;
100 years have passed since the monumental mishaps of Korra. Like orbital phases, the world wanes & waxes in and around darkness. The Spirit Vines, if intercepted, threaten the dissemination of spirits across Northern and Southern poles. Among these spirits... Vaatu.
The Temple of Healing once perched atop one of the city's towering spires, radiating as a beacon of hope and integral haven for residents and travelers alike. Hallowed walls came to life in an opulent array of animation, gleaming in the ubiquity of sunlight. Intricate tapestries and ornate decorations adorned its monolithic visage. Doctors, nurses, and physicians studiously practice their craft, adroit in their fields of interest. The hospital was illustrious for its expertise in medicinal herbs & herbal remedies, acupuncture, and holistic healing methods, dabbling in the old while inviting the new with open arms.
Its new premise loomed on the edge of town, ascertaining to sit on the outskirts of the city; its facade was weathered and worn, casting long shadows that seemed to swallow & disperse any light seized by its threatening aura. As the diaspora of Earth Kingdom residents desperately beseeching sanctity, the hospital no longer stood as a beacon, but a harrowing reminder of the malignancies that ran amok along the streets. Stepping through its rusted gates, a chill crept down the spines of even the most seasoned combatants, an unshakeable sense of forebode adamant in settling in the pit of their stomachs. Lush gardens turned sully, plants wilting in the amassment of atmospheric heat; tranquil courtyards held a dreaded silence—the scene notably lackluster.
Inside, the air was thick with despair & oppression. The reception area was a bleak tableau of misery, with patients slumped in chairs, their hollow eyes staring blankly into the void. Some were missing whole ligaments, the unfortunate victims of crossfire from the explosions prior. Others, charred to a crisp, their skin bearing burns of the third degree. Behind the desk, weary staff members moved with a ghostly pallor, their smiles forced and devoid of warmth. Blood-stained gurneys lined the corridors, blemishing the walls with accidental smears and strokes. The wails of the injured echoed off their cold, sterile surface. Medical teams moved with grim determination, their faces etched with the impending sense of doom lingering. Patient wards and rooms were no better, each one a chamber of horrors where suffering and despair reigned supreme. In the dimly lit halls, tortured souls writhed in anguish, their cries for mercy drowned out by the relentless march of time.
Mei Lin greeted visitors with a warm smile, revitalizing weary faces around her until they gleamed with joy, if only for a moment. Her laughter echoed softly, a rare sound that brought a fleeting sense of hope to her grim surroundings.
Even as her eyes meandered off into space, a hand rested gently on her cheek, her aura exuded a sense of liberation concomitant to an airbender, albeit, loftier, unwavering. Even as patients were rushed in missing whole jaws and legs, or incurring serious spinal injuries, she made sure to apply such efficacy in care they managed to keep calm even in their positions. Her presence alone acted almost as an intermediary between realms, a source of reassurance and equilibrium.
'Packed again, Sojun. We've almost reached the max capacity — again.'
She sighed emphatically. If anyone had to take up the burden of watching families in peril, it was her. Day in & day out, she watched the light dim from each & every visitor's eyes when she has to announce the hospital is full. Crime was already prevalent in the Earth Kingdom—and the resurrection of the Dai Lee only made hard living even harder in the long run. While the streets suffered, & the impoverished watched helplessly as their pockets thinned, they were also subjugated to watch the rich get richer. Loathing the government for their utter incompetence was the norm, a status quo that harbored some truth in hindsight.
'Maybe I'll have to open up my own little clinic one of these days. What should I name it?' Her lips ceased to move as she spoke. As though brandishing a title, hands enthralled in the idea portrayed a gesture of grandiosity, as though snapping a picture of the scene playing in her mind. 'Mei Lin's Soul Blossom Sanctuary.'
Behind her stood a girl. She bore the aesthetic of someone young, an innocent soul in the midst of chaos. Her luscious brown hair draped down to her shoulders, straight follicles gleaning in the dregs of light present. Despite the harsh heat still wafting the air, she donned a winter coat, visibly unphased by the abnormality in temperature. Her voice took on a spectral tone, with a dissonant pitch that sounded like she was far away even when she was only at a few feet's distance.
"I dunno if it rings off the tongue too well. Maybe Serene Spirit Healing Oasis?”
What if we shortened it to 'Serene Spirits' and made our slogan 'Serene Spirits: A Healing Clinic'?
"OOOOOOO! SOUNDS FANCY!"
Mei Lin's laughter blares caution signs above every patients' head in the area. Eyes swing over to her, curious as to who she was communicating with. She only attuned to their stares the moment she was confronted by the latest visitor.
"Welcome to the Temple of Healing! How may I assi—"
The bass & urgency in his voice cut deep through the joy, terse cries for help serrating the ears of all staff members present.
"MY DAUGHTER!”
“SHE'S BEEN HIT!”
“SHE'S BEEN HIT!”
“WE NEED A DOCTOR!”
“PLEASE!”
The girl clung to her seat, trying to hold herself upright. But her strength waned, and she slowly slumped forward, her eyes struggling to stay open. She was noticeably red, with large quantities of a black mucus escaping her nostrils in strings. Her hands were coated in a crude, jet black, redolent of oil. This nasal drip persisted even as Mei Lin tried to assess the situation as best she could; Sojun's eyes widened upon first glances. As the girl coughed twice, nearly hacking out a lung from the sheer force burdening each cough, the girl inadvertently let out a thick, opaque miasma, its tint leaving Mei with thoughts that she was infected with some sort of rare, infectious disease. The receptionist stepped back, mortified at the sight. She lightly wagged her head, acknowledging that this was something serious, and quite new. Mei Lin's heart raced as she watched the girl's condition worsen. Every second transpiring sapped her of more and more energy, until the flushing in her skin wilted away into a paling, emaciated figure.
‘... she's too young to be cursed.’ she murmured in the pacing scape of her mind. Every second mattered more than the last in saving a patient — especially one whose life energy has begun wilting away before her fingertips.
Mei was in a race for time.
She fervently paced to the computer terminal equipped with a microphone. Tapping the mic once, she cleared her throat, parched with desperation, before calling out to any doctors on standby: "Attention! All available medical staff! We have an emergency situation at the reception area, immediate assistance is needed! I repeat: emergency in the reception area, we need all hands on deck!”
Unbeknownst to Mei Lin, Sojun was already on the case; she was one of the descriers who the scene was most heartaching for. She empathized with the girl—it wasn't like she asked for the roots of destruction to coil around her in such a form. She, like many, many others, was a casualty in the onslaught, a denizen caught in the fray. She didn't deserve it. In a sense, it spoke volumes to the long lasting effects spiritual incursions—an invasion of negative chi on the soul; an influx—had on one's physical wellness. Had it not been for Sojun, maybe this would've been her end. A youthful spirit gone too soon amidst a conflict that hadn't even concerned her.
But this was what the cesspool the world had amounted to.
Nobody in this world deserves to experience their life flashing before their eyes, as they can only pray as the time goes by that everything will be alright...
Nobody.
"Sweet, sweet child. He did this to you, didn't he? You no longer have to be scared anymore. I know. I understand how scary it can be, feeling like the world is against you, like your only option is to die, or else be held hostage as a captive in your mind, writhing in pain for the rest of your life.”
"The person you'll come to learn about in those books. This great "savior of the world". He isn't your friend. He's an enemy that needs to be stopped... and from what I sense, you're just a girl who flew to close to the sun. You got caught in something bigger than yourself: but you shouldn't have to suffer for wanting to sprout your wings and be free." This was in reference to Sozin, The Avatar. The supposed "progenitor of peace"—a statement Sojun long believed to have went extinct with the death of Avatar Aang, & thus, just another fable in the annals of history.
Kneeling before her, Sojun's hand slowly gravitated towards hers. She could feel the girl's discomfort on a spiritual level; in an effort to calm her down for the healing process, she speaks to her delicately, careful of her volume and precise with the thematic value surrounding her words. Broken spirits needed fixed spirits to tell them how to fix themselves. This especially reigned true here.
"I know because I've been there. I've felt lost and scared, just like you. But they couldn't cure me fast enough, and I don't want that for you. You're brave and resilient, Yumi. I'll make sure it stays that way, okay?"
"Now, this will hurt a bit but don't move too much, okay?"
Sojun grimaced with pity upon contact: her touch was rigid and rough, her hands glacial & stiff, their tips purple. It was only when Sojun interlocked fingers with hers that she felt the vivifying warmth of blood circulation once more. A palliative force soothed her muscle spasms, curing her state of paralysis. The viscosity dripping onto her skirt cut like closing a faucet shut. Sunken eyes returned to their normal, ivory shade…
Meanwhile, the girl's father sobbed to his heart's content, giving into the rush of survivor's guilt. His life flashed before his eyes, as the light in them, too, had long dissipated away before he arrived. He was a husk of the man he once was—a father through & through, but one utterly disappointed in himself & what he adamantly believed was his own incompetence.
"I just wish I could've been there to protect her…”
“Is that why you punish me, Raava?” “Because I couldn't be there to protect her? I should have seen this coming... the world's a cold, cold place, and I've just never been the one to put on a jacket and handle my damn business... I could've just gone to the archery another day... "
“Oh, how the hell am I gonna tell your mom about this one, Yumi..."
He didn't need to turn around. Only listen to the sweet melody that pursued his attention: and captivated him nonetheless. It awoke him from his somber comatose.
"P-papa...?"
"Papa...!"
She ran into his arms. The warm embrace he gave her was one of endearment, awe-struck at the sight. "O..oh my god..." His jaw unhinged to unconsciously display the rollercoaster of emotions toppling over: for him, a blessing was the only way to describe it. "My angel! Yu-Yu! My angel!"
The girl squeals out in joy, "She saved me, Papa! The lady—she saved me!"
"...what lady, yu-yu?"
"There!" She points at Sojun—but all her father can see is the void of space.
He shook his head.
"Who? __There's nobody there__, yumi…”
In the confines of Mei Lin's car, the vision unfolded—a mere glimpse of what lay ahead. As a seeress, her insight often came at a dismal cost—her mind a portent battleground for the whispers of fate. Ignis fatuus, an eyesore kin to the insidious flame of foresight, swayed at the edges of her consciousness, a constant reminder of the precarious nature of her existence.
"Ugh," Mei Lin muttered to herself, fumbling with the pill bottle in her hand. "I forgot to take my medicine again." She shook her head in frustration. It was the third time this week she'd forgotten. But who would have blamed her...
All her attention was deprived by the thinning veil between the world.
‘What type of hellhole do we live in for an Avatar to disregard his duties entirely and kill the innocent..?’
‘I don't think I'll ever see any method to this madness.’
Mei Lin glanced at the dashboard clock, the hands ticking closer to the start of her shift. The flashback to the vision lingered in her mind, the echo of Sojun's words reverberating through her thoughts.
As she pondered the significance of the scene, Mei Lin reached for her medication, intending to take her usual dose. But something nagged at her... tugging at her spirit. A sense of emergency, with a tinge of importance she simply could not ignore.
With a trembling hand, Mei Lin poured out a handful of pills, swallowing them in one swift motion. The bitter taste lingered on her tongue, a bitter reminder of the sacrifices she made to maintain her sanity in a world that didn't understand her one bit.
As the car idled in the parking lot, Mei Lin closed her eyes, the weight of her secrets pressing down upon her as they do daily. She wondered what the prognostication could mean in regards to her—& whether it ended there, or if chaos found its way to the hospital in the end. But for now, all she could do was wait—and pray that she had made the right choice.
"Let's hope everything goes smoothly I guess.”
What history doesn't teach you...
Raava & Vaatu were not one primordial spirits—there are more. 7, to be exact.
Long ago, nestled in the spirit realm, there existed a group of seven young spirits known as the 7 Virtues of Bushido. The inauguration of their birth would only come during the creation of the Spirit Vines, a time when the fabrics of the spirit realm strengthened, and nature thrived. They grew stronger alongside it, harnessing its energy for the greater good. While Raava & Vaatu dealt with savoring and destroying the balance, they instead honed their talents to employ justice and enforce peace across the spirit realm.
The plethora of contributions attributed to their efforts were in vain due to Avatar Sozin's legion of dark spirits. As they terrorized the natural world in drastic numbers, The Sentinels have climbed into a resurgence.
"Oof..! I've gotta ease my mind a bit: how about some music to cheer the mood—”
"—in honor of you, Sojun. As always.” She let out a lighthearted chuckle.
Mei reached out to the dashboard, her fingertips grazing the worn surface of the radio. The radio crackled to life with a determined twist of the knob, the sound of radio static filling the room with tension that only magnified the metric tons of pressure already present. Her brows furrowed in concentration as she navigated through the channels, each one offering a cacophony of voices, music, & advertisements. On her fifth attempt, an unfamiliar jingle captured her attention:
"IT'S THE PRO BOWL TOURNAMENT, WHERE LEGENDS ARE BORN,"
"FIRE, EARTH, WATER, WIND, IT'LL BLOW UP THE STORM!”
"STEP UP IN THE RING,"
"YOU'LL FEEL THE FIRE,"
"FEEL THE HEAT,"
"CRUSIN' ALL UP ON THESE FLOWS JUST LIKE ITS CRACK UP IN THEM STREETS."
"FROM THE STREETS TO THE STAGE,"
"100K FOR A PAGE,"
"CHAMPIONS RISE, WE IDOLIZE,"
"AND WHEN THAT CHECK COME WE STRAIGHT."
"SO GRAB YOUR TICKETS, COME ALIVE,"
"REMEMBER: DON'T HESITATE,"
"WITNESS THE GREATNESS IN STORE,"
"BECAUSE ITS NEVER TOO LATE."
"BE THERE CUZ ITS A CELEBRATION"
"PRO BENDING TOURNAMENT, ITS A REVELATION."
Title: Avatar: Sozin's Comet.
Genre: Fantasy.
Age Range: 16+.
Word Count: 2,920 Words.
I believe my project is a good fit because I'm currently working on refinement, clarity, and pacing, and with an opportunity like this I believe I can mesh my writing style with the Avatar universe to give an immersive take on the universe for all Avatar fans across the world to enjoy!
The Man in The Mirror.
His eyes are ¹ ², caliginous orbitals, celestial bodies born in a nebula, insipid of light.
His face is plump, ¹⁰ to a rotund, pit-bellied fool, black freckles speckled along his ⁵, dotting his nose.
His ³ slits follow your every move. Seeping through your skin. The smell of marijuana is fragrant. A nauseating stench tinges your nostrils.
Stygic, even — forcing a visceral reaction, snapping your neck to the side, sullying the moment in befowlment.
⁶ coerces you to writhe at the sight of the ghastly specter.
The hairs on the back of your neck ⁷.
Your heart ⁸ a beat.
Syllabic dregs escape its lips, words you could only ⁹ make out even if you acquired its rosetta stone.
And yet, you feel an insistent compulsion to place your hand on the glass frame...
So you do.
Your hands gingerly ⁷ off the circumference of the sink. Slowly, as if spacetime and gravity declared it impromptu in the ¹¹ spectrum of events spindled by destiny's hands, you pivot a hand onto the frame. Friction gives way—everything else ceases to matter. And as you collide with the tempered glass, you find yourself tumbling headfirst into the aventurine confines.
What you see… is a list:
¹ Gaping
² Apertures
³ Jagged
⁴ Coffee
⁵ Cold Visage
⁶ Dread
⁷ Rise
⁸ Skips
⁹ Partially
¹⁰ Concomitant
¹¹ Grand
The instructions on the bottom:
Read it back.
How can a man write out his woes without the tears welding in his eyes falling with every stroke? As yet another door shutters before slamming in his face. Will he ever come to forget the pain that trails within those tears? Will he ever come to terms with who he is as a person, and uphold a certain contentment with being subpar? But how could a captive forget wrought steel, as cold and spiritually incarcerating as bare feet on concrete? Or the dust, compiled as tarry crust, outlining the walls and creeping along corners? Or the spindles of webs from spiders long vanished, grains of sand in time’s dunes? Or the mice, terrorizing him for morsels of food, drinking his water, stealing what little sustenance he has left. Devouring what remains of his sanity.
Is there more to life than the crude sentiments sparsely disseminated between forgotten memories?
He asks, and asks, and asks, knowing the answer dwells in the void. But by the end of the day, he’ll tell himself:
The answer is in tomorrow.
Contemporary.
Some see a glass full of gold,
Some see a glass full of ether.
Euthanized out the litre,
They eat en mass with the reaper.
Platonic with viscosa,
That nova-pass be the preacher,
Aspirin' the youth to toke up,
amass all the reefer—
Cole said it.
If you can't sift through Holy Apostles
Then don't go acting prophetic.
If you can't drift through Roman Epistles
Then don't go actin' moet-ic.
Ironic, can't apprehend it.
Ironic, can't comprehend it.
Ironic, can't juxtapose it.
But I suppose only rolling over beat clothes and dead sofas
Contuse the slews of condonin' loans to hearts that can't afford ta' (to),
Obtuse abstruse,
When you widen angles it shifts their composure.
Just because angles correspond don't mean they share the same closure.
Adjacency's complacency,
Your higher purpose supposed to,
Swirl vortically in vertices,
Feathers of wisdom not covert.
And to many it sounds pathetic when the message ain't overt.
But too many eulogies came up to inspire a sole verse,
Like palpable euphony, our voice inspires the soul search—
That's composure.
Priceless.
Fallen clouds of thought brume below my feet, unsettled the soil, graining all-encumbering heaps like shackles of all-ensnaring dust. It strops along paling skin quivering from wounds inflicted prior.
Wincing & gritting away the pain is futile.
Blood, saps out the wound, dribbles seep down the scars.
Gusts whet— enslaving the mind in an asphyxiating flurry of whips & lashes that settle your unruly temperament.
Take one step forward in defiance of the currents?
You’re dealt with two choices.
Take two steps back,
Or die to its tempestuous torment.
My mind, a sea of rapids
A storm brewing in the distance.
I, a Helmsman,
Pressing my lips against the pendulum of my past,
Before tossing it into the sea as a relic of remembrance.
To sink...
Never to arise again.
Fighting against the demonizing grip of procrastination is an uphill battle I fear I cannot win.
But I fight.
I fight for fighting's sake,
to leave a legacy,
beauty or blemish,
And for my skull to mount the summit of the catacombs when it's all said and done.
Crossroad Blues.
Forgive me, father, for I sin.
Each breath.. entangled in a brume of spite.
I mean well.
I do.
It's why I've amicably come forth with a gilded spirit and an open mind, wishing—hoping—for a remedy.
You summon me before you as a proscenium, my life a dancing intermission in a tragedy, captivating those closest to the arch—the audience a cast of specters, with ghoulish eyes and morbid expressions.
"Go, my son," you tell me, its polytonal dissonance startling my ears at first listen. "Dance to your heart's content, for tis a time of jubilee."
I dance.
I sway to, and fro, pivoting and strutting, each movement an ode to Thee. The percussions of footfall bring about their own tune, serenading the audience in such a way that inspired awe and enthrallment.
I am a languished will, a blossom wilted by solar egression.. your light the brilliant encircement of the luminares, the opulence of chandeliers and familiarity & warmth of a mother.
I am a subjugate to their clamor, a jester lulled into their hide, a false sense of security emanating in their secular stares.
I am no man.
I am weak.
You assure me the dance will end. That there will be no encore.
So why, oh, why, father, do I pity their howls and claps?
Succumb to tears in lieu of your admonishment?
Why do my feet bleed, and my arms ache?
Why, when I bow do I feel the compulsion to vomit out the bile in my intestines, as if it's the only way to muster the agony?
Why do I want to do it all over again?
Transcience.
Reach for the stars: always.
Life is an ephemeral blur. Short-lived. Memories and experiences accrued in effervescent streams, each representating bubbles arising in the foamy landscape of our mind. Why ponder on the evitable avalanche of problems, trials and tribulations, when the inevitable escape from the icy tundra lies just ahead? Why, when it lies in appreciation of our skills and trust in our ability to get to this point? Why do we look onward at the detriments and differences in society, when, as a collective, we cherish very similar values and morals and outlooks. Why, when we are given the gratification of family — if not family, friendship and the value of connecting with other like- or open-minded people; if not friendship, the gift of identity or a sense of self; if not identity, life, existence — do we sink when all prescience on the matter fails?
Happiness does not dwell in the moments we share, but the moments that snatch the breaths out of your throats, and give you a newfound understanding of the world around you. Sadness is the realization of limitations, the conjuring up of one’s shadow. It is the epitome of darkness — but finding happiness in something or someone, is the light.
Empathy.
The heart conflagrates a flame brighter than the sun... The mind wanes as clarifying rays of knowledge divvy in interspersion. To feel is to be flesh; to blur the lines between reality and fantasy our most critical faculty, albeit deeprooted in the spurs of insanity. The ability to imagine is a dual-edged blade elongated by joy, passion, and inspiration, but sharpened just as well by sadness, apathy & leisure. It's our capacity of feel that keens its edges — to empathize and relate to one another as a people, on an individual level. Heart to heart. Like the rich rivulets of magic in the hands of the disciple of man, disciplined & stoic, chiseling beauty out of igneous, and abstracting solutions to life's greatest obstacles, challenging them indefinitely.
Success is the acclimation of joy & attainment. A psychedelic ecstasy, induced by doing something well or to completion, which only increases with the difficulty of the task. It is fundamentally concomitant to an overwhelming sense of reward, achievement. It holds the retrocognition to resonate with our past achievements, encourages our strengths, & validate these experiences. It kickstarts our drive to do more, to push past the odds, perhaps to progress & prevail even when the world turns a blind eye. It's almost unanimously agreeable transcending expectations feels damn good.
To make the naysayers hush; to make those supporting you along the journey proud of who you've become. It's a beautiful feeling that often gets undermined & swept into the aperture of failure — when all things cease to go your way, & life seems to dread your existence as much as those who look down upon you.
Sentimentality as it pertains to happiness is difficult, but integral; understanding others, where they swing along the pendulum on emotion, is the key to contextualizing their mentality.
Treating everyone with the level of respect you want to be treated with is imperative for a greater future, as, it keeps in mind those layers of context often missing from colloquial scenarios, the tides of everyday conversation. At the end of the day, we all want to succeed in this grand monopoly board we call life, where the rich parsimoniously seize their wealth & get richer, while the poor are mentally enslaved to the cyclical toils of life.
You truly never know what the next person is or has been going through.
Even Satan Was An Angel.
"Son of man, take up a lamentation upon the king of Tyrus, and say unto him, Thus saith the Lord God; Thou sealest up the sum, full of wisdom, and perfect in beauty. Thou hast been in Eden the garden of God; every precious stone was thy covering, the sardius, topaz, and the diamond, the beryl, the onyx, and the jasper, the sapphire, the emerald, and the carbuncle, and gold: the workmanship of thy tabrets and of thy pipes was prepared in thee in the day that thou wast created. Thou art the anointed cherub that covereth; and I have set thee so: thou wast upon the holy mountain of God; thou hast walked up and down in the midst of the stones of fire. Thou wast perfect in thy ways from the day that thou wast created, till iniquity was found in thee." - Ezekiel: 12-15. (KJV)
Satan was an angel, embellished in wings of sacred gold and unequivocally precious gems, their brilliance a star-studded night sky, consecrated with a voice so mellifluous, it could sway even the most steadfast angels. He was the mold of perfection, designed to harbor wisdom and that which is beautiful. Even he succumbed to avarice. Even he bit into the forebidden apple.
When the temptation to crave more, to bite the hand that feeds you, becomes an insistent whisper, it takes on the irresistible allure of honey. One lick, and in that honeyed moment, it seals your fate, becoming your ultimate downfall.
Goodbye, Akira Toriyama.
You remember it like it was yesterday.
A small, dingy apartment complex, with wooden floors that creaked and moaned with every step, and lifeless, beige walls bereft of animation.
It's 2 in the morning.
'You should be sleeping, shouldn't you?' You can already hear your mother's stern voice scolding you as you smother the sheets over yourself in consolation.
But, as you glance at the clock, that ceases to matter.
Everything, ceases to matter.
Several minutes go by in apprehensive thought: 'It'll only be for an hour or so.'
Maybe, just maybe, she's finally sound asleep.
You carefully rise from your bed, tip-toeing to the television. Sheer bliss floods your senses, excitement stored for what's to come.
You know what time it is.
You know what's on right now.
Pressing the button, it gives a mechanical click, concomitant to its vintage design, before displaying the familiar, white, jagged lines, like radio static visualized, soon blotted away by a black void.
Then, the sound plays. The channel displays on the bottom of the screen in white text & a gray undertone:
https://youtu.be/XRRlZOWcwUc?si=PR28ljaZRrhymHLk
We all at some point in time felt that joy of innocence. We all believed in our hearts that joy would last forever. That the works we idolize would continue to be produced, continue to change our lives in their own, consecrated ways.
Akira Toriyama taught me one man's vision can bring people together, hand in hand. It fascinates me how for just even a second, people can settle their differences for a common interest. It's even more fascinating how one man can create something so monumental it reshapes our childhoods, blossoms our imagination, & lets them run wild. Akira Toriyama forged gems out of memories, and gold, out of the beauty of creativity.
Dragon Ball Z is a key memory of my childhood. I was a sucker for the high octane battles, the dramatic expressions & scenes, the power-ups. The lessons it's characters have taught me have remained timeless artifacts I carry with me in everyday life.
Goku taught me how to be resilient to the challenge, to reach for the stars even if you fall back to the moon. To prevail against the odds, even when the odds were never particularly in your favor. To adapt, and come to find that love & appreciate towards that thing you are adapting to, no matter how wicked. But to also know you must beat it in the end.
Vegeta taught me the equally important value of honor and downfall of hubris. That absolute power can corrupt absolutely, and a lack of self-realization & self-awareness will only lead you down a road of pain & misery. That we all have our own story: meaning we all have our happy ending, even if it comes unexpectedly, at the cost of your honor. Pride and dignity are a duality that only works when paired together: true, unanimous respect is only obtainable by those who show dignity and are not engulfed by their pride. It is only when he realizes that Goku has reached a pinnacle he couldn’t during the Majin Buu fight, that he takes a true 180 as a character, and we see how even someone as immoral and barbaric as Vegeta can have a heart, too.
Gohan taught me that not everyone with the instincts to fight wants to be placed in that situation. Sometimes, blessings can be a terminal curse, and heightened expectations can often override personal desire. Success is subjective; and just as one’s man trash is another man’s treasure, one man’s nightmare can be another man’s dream. True bliss is often overlooked by potential-seeking — you can build the ideal life that makes you happy, even if it makes the vast majority question your decision-making.
Piccolo taught me that everyone group of people need an anchor, a person who will take on the gritty, difficult, rigorous, and challenging tasks. Someone has to get their hands dirty to dig up the burrow and plant seeds of growth in the group. This was piccolo to the Z Fighters. His value is overlooked by the herculean tasks given to him: but he often times surpasses expectations set and prevails in some aspect. May it be saving Gohan from a blast that could’ve disintegrated him right then & there, or arriving as a main support against a monstrosity like Frieza, or saving 17 from the clutches of Cell. I can go on and on when it comes to piccolo’s value as a supporting cast member.
Tien taught me a similar lesson of the extent to which altruism can help a team as Piccolo. How tenacity and heart can completely turn the tables of a fight to your favor, even if for just a second.
Likewise, Krillin taught me that not everyone is cut for the insurmountable, and that the trials one is put against can be so outlandish from your original perspective you weren’t destined to win in the end. But you keep going. He also brought a sense of comedic relief, often times appearing just to allieve the tension present and bring us back to the reality of the situation.
Dende taught me you can find a place in the hearts of those willing to take you in as one of their own. You will find those special people that bring out the most in you. You will meet those people that see your potential and elevate you to a stature as radiant & acclaimed as them. It’s only just a matter of time & acceptance.
Trunks, Chiaotzu, Bulma, Master Roshi, 17, 18, 16’s Death, Chi Chi, Videl, Hercule, Kid Trunks, Goten. I can rant for hours about these characters and their individual significance in my life.
What Toriyama created wasn’t just art. It wasn't just a cartoon; it was a masterpiece of storytelling that continues to captivate audiences to this day. It was a monument of creativity centered around the simple, general premise of fighting for the fate of the world, even when the odds are stacked against you. It’s simplicity is what made it Dragon Ball, and Goku’s ability to admire & appreciate the qualms of combat even with the galactic weight resting on his shoulders inspires me to this day.
Fly high, Akira Toriyama.
And when I have kids.
And my kids wind up having kids.
Your work will remain as tradition.
As a nostalgic reminder that at some point in their lives, everyone needs a hero.