------------------------------------------------------------
platypus3333
platypus3333@yahoo.com
http://platypus3333.tripod.com
Above web site is netscape incompatible.
Draft 2: added Touji section in the middle.
------------------------------------------------------------
Kangae: Shinji
Or
The Bull
Part 1
------------------------------------------------------------
We hide. We hide under our pretense of civilization, adopting society's manners in a futile effort to appear, outwardly, normal.
Controllable. And yet. held inside every one of us there is a wild animal, an uncontrollable, passionate force, waiting to be released.
We feel it when we get angry, our faces reddening, our fists fighting to clench, our teeth gnashing as we try to run away. To hide from
our nature. We feel it when we fall in love, or perhaps in lust. The urge to just go and throw ourselves upon the other like a stallion with
a mare, ignoring all shades of what we think ourselves to be and what we were trained to be. We like to believe ourselves passive-
everyone does- or, at the very least, contained. You know this, don't you? Every time you get angry or excited or anxious, you think this
to yourself. "I am calm," you say. "In control of my emotions." Sometimes, you even take a deep breath and count to ten. But then
something inside of you, deep inside of you, laughs at you and tells you that's not so, you're not calm, you're not in control, and that
that little something would escape soon enough, unchain itself, manifest itself, and rip apart the screens of "humanity" you've striven
so hard to put up. You know this. There are no exceptions: we are all alike underneath, raging cauldrons threatening to just boil over, to
explode. You know this. I know this. We know this. This is our nature, our most base knowledge, our most base facet.
There are no exceptions. Not even if you're a Child. Like me, for example.
My name is Shinji Ikari, or Ikari Shinji if you prefer to hear it the Japanese way. It makes no difference, really. Names are nothing,
just another facade, a false meaning to bind ourselves by. A cage, a prison, iron chains to hold ourselves to what people think us to be.
But cages open, prisoners released, iron melted. The true measure of a person is how long he or she lasts in the cage, as is the same with
a prisoner: it's self explanatory. A prisoner. You're already trapped, you're already caught, you're already facing probable greater punishment.
There's nothing left to do, really, but tough it out and see how long you last before you finally crack. Before you go insane and scream
and start trying to kill those next to you and trying, desperately, to get out, to get out, to get out, to get out. To get out of the prison, get
out of the cage, get out into the whole wide world where you're free. That's what I'd like to do. But me.
I'm still trying to last. I probably won't last much longer: I'm not that strong. But I'm still here, I'm still toughing it out, and I have
been doing so for the past 14 years. I won't last much longer, I'm sure. I'm not that strong.
Right now I'm standing in front of my father: more accurately, I'm glaring at my father, fighting the desperate urge to take my
backpack and throw it at his head. Maybe, with luck, I'll bean him and make him drop the 35 feet onto the platform I'm on. Maybe, with
luck, the fall will kill him. Maybe, with luck, the last thing he sees is my face, cold, dark, the years of his absence from my life manifested.
But a part of me doesn't want to kill him, really. A part of me wants to get to him, to hug him and see if he'll hug me back. Maybe he will,
maybe he won't. That's immaterial right now, I guess. He's up there, I'm down here, and that's the way it's been and the way it'll probably
continue to be. Now, we're both trying to appear strong, each holding up an invisible, impenetrable wall, trying to look strong, trying to
see who'll crack first. It's a challenge for both of us, wild wolves circling around each other in our minds, waiting, anticipating the other's
leap.
Damn him. Damn him. I know what I'm here for, I knew it since he called me. Or, at least, I knew the part that mattered. We weren't
here for some great, human, family reunion, exchanging hugs and kisses and presents and kind words and all that other shit I really don't
understand; I haven't experienced any of it, to my knowledge. We were here, in fact, because he needed me to do something for him.
I thought so. I really shouldn't. the animal inside snarls and growls and tells me what I should do for him. but I can't help it. A part of me
still wants him to smile at me, I guess. A part of me still wants some acceptance, some acknowledgement.
Damn him. He knows exactly how I work. He probably knows how everything works. He knows the buttons to push, how people
will react, how people won't react, what people will do with each other. My father. The grand manipulator, the grandmaster chess player
with the world as his board. He probably cheats, too. Damn him. I can't think of anything else to say. Damn him. Damn him. Damn him.
Damn him. Damn him.
Finally, inevitably, it's me that breaks down, that looks away sadly. Damn him. He would never let me win. Never. I can't run
away now.
That bastard.
------------------------------------------------------------
Have you ever been so angry that you wanted to kill somebody? Wanted to just grab them by the neck and crush their head
against a wall?
I want to do that now. The scary part is, it isn't with my father: I had once thought, in the darkest recesses of my mind, that all
my anger was reserved for him, for him alone. I had once thought, in the darkest recesses of my mind, that even in the end, the only person
on earth that could ever make me want to hurt, to maim, to even kill- was my father. To my shock, I'm proven wrong.
The boy's name is Suzahara. He's just punched me in the face, knocking me to the cold stone tiles of the school's roof. I cautiously
rub my cheek, already sensing the presence, the painful tingle, of battered, reddening skin. I glare up at him darkly as he rubs his right fist.
According to him, I hurt his younger sister in Eva. Jesus. It's not like I really wanted to be put in that thing anyway. If I recall correctly, most
of my time was spent screaming, clutching my wrist, and getting knocked into buildings. It's his own damn fault he wasn't watching when
his sister wandered outside. Asshole. And he's pissed about it. Frothing mad.
It must be nice, having a sister. Or even a sibling, really. Someone to confide in, someone you KNOW, beyond all doubts, will
stick by you to the end, someone you've been with since they were born, or vice versa. Another person to hurt like you do, feel like you
do. It must be nice. Maybe that's why he's about to hit me again.
I glance at the floor next to me. At this point, I would like nothing better than to just leap at him like some wild predator, punch
that stupid bastard right in his face. In fact, some part of me demands that I do so, defend my own honor, show him that I'm not weak,
that he's weak, that I'm better than him, that I'm stronger than him.
But the better part of me- and I use the term loosely- warns me not to. It tells me to control myself, to keep a grip on myself. His
actions are justified, actually, in a twisted sort of way. That's the depressing part. The inescapable truth catches up to me- yes, maybe I,
indeed, did not want to be put into the machine. Maybe I did, indeed, spend my time getting beaten on. But in the end- it was my choice.
I could've chosen the other way, could've ignored my father's accusations of weakness and his cold, dead, glaring eyes. But then. they
would've made that girl fight, right? She was in bad shape. Really bad shape. Maybe she would've been killed. Maybe the last thing she
would see, in her mind's eye, would be my face, hurt, cold, weak- choosing to let her die in my stead. But it was my choice. She might not
have died. She might have saved everyone, fought logically, kept control, preserved Suzahara's sister. Or she might not have. It doesn't
matter, I guess. I made my choice, and the consequence is standing in front of me, ready to pound on my face. I can't fight him. He's right,
that's the problem. I can't fight someone that's right. That's like kicking him while he's down. I can't fight someone that I've wronged,
someone that's fighting for what's right. I can't.
He drags me up by my collar. I can feel his hot, moist breath hitting my cheek in quick, panting bursts. I can feel his anger, like hot
irons searing my soul, glaring down on me. He's right, he's the hero here, the good guy holding the skinny, frail villain, armed with the
strength of virtue. He's right, I tell myself. I deserve this. I hurt his sister, his companion, the little friend he looked out for. I hurt her with
my choice. I look to the side, to the horizon, ready for it. I deserve this, and I deserve the fist that's coming straight for my jaw.
I'm ready to fall to the ground, and I would, but something's holding me back. His left hand. Damn, he's strong. One arm, he's
lifting me in the air, holding me up. Damn. And he's right. I still can't get over that. I did it for the girl, didn't I? I did it for the girl. She
would've died. Anyone that looked at her could've predicted that. She was in a stretcher, for God's sake. She would've died.
But I don't know that, do I? I don't know that she would've died. She could've lived. She could've done better. I could see it in
her eye, back at that day. She would've done anything. That was clear. She would've done anything to preserve things, she would have
given her life so that one little girl would not be hurt. She would've fought as long as she had to, as long as someone else wouldn't be
hurt. I could see it. Maybe it was pity for her, maybe that's why I chose to pilot. She had so little strength left, she was almost dead in that
stretcher. But she was willing to fight. She was willing to be strong. Maybe I felt sorry for her. Maybe I felt sorry for her. I still remember
that look on her face. she was in pain. But she wasn't asking to be put back in her bed, to go to sleep and huddle in the blankets and ignore
all her pain. No. She was asking for help, to get into the plug, so that she could go fight. God. I'll never forget that look. I'll never forget that
girl. I can't believe someone would be so willing to destroy themselves. God. I envy that girl. Maybe she wouldn't have died, but she sure
as hell deserved a break.
I wipe some blood from my lip and look up at the other boy. No. The choice was for her. That girl. It wasn't for me. I place
both palms on the ground slowly push myself up. I did it for her, that girl. He has no right to do this to me. I helped the girl. I helped
the girl! He has no right to hit me. I helped her. She deserved a break. She deserved it. He has no right. I struggle, and eventually stumble
to my feet. I glare at him, an animalistic fury in my eyes. He can see it, judging by that confused look on his face. I slowly clench my fist
shut. You have no right, I shout at him in my mind. I did it for that girl! You've taken your shots, now take some of mine!
And then my eyes focus on something over his shoulder, behind him. It's that girl. She's just watching me. She's so frail, so
weak. Suddenly, there's no fight in me again, all the animal in me disappearing under her cool gaze. I helped her. That's all. There's no
need to justify my own anger with her, no need to justify violence. She doesn't deserve to be used.
It's okay to get hit.
She deserved the break.
And as long as she gets it, everything is okay.
------------------------------------------------------------
I met a girl today. Her name is Asuka. She talks quite a bit. In fact, in the entire period of time I've known her- which, granted, is
not significantly long- she has not stopped. It is, quite honestly, starting to annoy me. Talk, talk, talk, talk. That's all she does, really- well,
that and suck up to authority and smack me around. How in hell do you smack around someone you barely know? Jesus. And I thought
I had anger management problems. It's like all the spine in my body was sucked out at young age and surgically implanted into hers. Talk,
talk, talk. Smack, smack, smack. Right now it's the former. She's bragging, of all things, about being an Evangelion pilot. I understand that
even less. Why would anyone brag about being stuffed, just when puberty hits, into a liquid filled chamber with orders to fight huge
monsters? It's like she's happy some asshole managed to coerce her, at a young and impressionable age, into risking her life on a totally
randomized basis. She's trapped too, she's a prisoner. The irony is, she has no idea as to her captivity. She thinks she's special or
something, in a unique group of people that comprises a small percentage of the population. Hell. So are rape victims. And I seriously
doubt they brag about their status.
The sad part is, even animals in zoos are smarter than her about this. They can tell they're trapped, you can see it in their eyes.
The way they look at you, all pitifully. "We're trapped," their eyes tell you. "We know it. You know it. Sure, we get it good here. That's
what it looks like."
And then, you probably ask them what in hell they're talking about (in your mind, of course. No matter how nuts or insane you
know you really are, you refuse to show it to others.)
"Well," they'll start in an amiable fashion. "Like we said: it looks like we got it good in here, in these cages. We have no food
problems, no survival problems, no hunter guys waiting to use our pelts as hats."
Sure, you agree. That makes sense, right? You ask them to continue.
"But then, you see, even if we get fed in these cages, we survive in these cages, we aren't hunted in these cages. we ARE still in
cages, in the end. We're trapped here, and I'll be damned if those guys sitting in yonder office, sipping their filtered Colombian
bean juice or whatever, are willing to let us get back into the wild."
Sure, you agree. That, too makes sense. But then you wonder: why would they WANT to get out of these cages? Aren't they
fed, don't the survive, isn't there an astounding shortage of guys with rifles walking about? You ask them this.
"Here, let me put it this way. Yeah, we get all these nice amenities, yeah, we eat the same stuff we do back out there. But it's
different, you know? It's different."
How so, you ask.
"Back out there we were free. We got to do whatever the hell we wanted, whether play a game of chicken with a moving vehicle-
something I hear deer still indulge in- or eat food that's bad for us or screw around with people's minds by setting up paw marks
that look suspiciously like addition. Back out there." The animal will look at you, straight at you, and you can see the hatred in
its eyes, hidden behind that veil of resignation. "Back out there we were free to do whatever we wanted. That's all we ever asked.
Hunters. guh. What kind of idiotic judicial system cages the victim?" The animal would pause and stare off into space, thinking
fondly of its homelands. Or maybe the animal would stare at some imported plant, trying to imagine what life would be like without
all the humans, what life would be like back home.
But they're safe here, right? Safe from the hunters. They'd be dead without humans. You smile and marvel at the inherent kindness
of people. And then, some thought nags at you in the back of your mind. Wait, you think. What species were the hunters? You
blink a little. They're people, just like you. They're humans, just like you and the people who work at the zoo. Humans have
succeeded in rescuing animals from themselves, in the process trapping said animals, taking them, stripping of all they once
had and what made them so valuable and beautiful to watch in the first place. You get it, now. It's people. People screw with the
animals, people have messed up their very lifestyle.
Then the animal looks back at you and pauses at something in your eyes. "Yeah, I think maybe you get it." It blinks once, maybe
twice. "Humans are just another animal, aren't they? They want to do the same thing as us. Selfish bastards."
You respond with an inquisitive look. How so, you ask plaintively.
"Well, now." The animal settles back. "You eat junk food, right? Don't even try to lie." It looks at you. "Sure you do. Sure you
do. You people throw those foil things into the trash all the time, right?"
You nod, uncertain of where this is going but still with a slight inkling of what is being suggested.
"We do too." The animal nods wisely to itself, then nibbles on a little lettuce, or whatnot. "Also, we like to have fun and to
take risks and to just, in general, mess around and have fun with our lives." Then it looks off into the distance again, its mind
drifting. "But you bastards. you stupid bastards. Always screwing up everything around you. All you do is kill and hate
and rob and act so bloody superior. But you're no better than us, you know. You just got a good hand, and can't stop crowing
about it. Stupid, selfish bastards. If you don't trap us you trap each other. It just never stops, does it? Stupid, stupid bastards.
Who in hell gave YOU the right? Who in hell gave you the right to make yourselves feel good, feel. human. at our expense?"
And then it ignores you, turns back to doing whatever it was doing.
And you think to yourself: stupid, stupid, selfish, bloody, bastards. Who gave you the right? Who gave you the right.
Who. gave. you. or us. all of us. the right.
We are all just caged, all just animals on the inside. We're like special exhibits, we do things for others to look at and enjoy and
maybe spit upon. She just doesn't get that, understand that. Asuka, I mean. She just doesn't. I can tell: I'm looking at her right
now. She's still talking about how damned special she is. She looks smug, like she has since I met her. People that have even
the tiniest inkling of all the shit they're in don't look smug. People with even a little comprehension look tortured, tormented,
trapped, like wild animals. Asuka, however- she looks like she owns the damned zoo. I can't stand it. I just can't stand it.
It's kind of like Charlie Brown. this 20th century comic strip character. He was a pathological loser, almost like it was his job to
make people feel good about themselves. He was almost never, ever happy for more than 30 minutes at a time. Damn, sad, huh?
He's also the smartest guy I've ever seen, heard, or read about. Brown knew what life was ABOUT. Life was not winning all the
time, being happy, having smiles pasted on your face like some demented arts and crafts project. No. Life was the exact opposite.
Life was losing. Life was watching someone else smile- usually at your own expense. Reality hit this guy- and me- at a disturbingly
early age. It's almost like we're born to be lonely, born to lose, born to die sad and pathetic.
See. now, to extend the metaphor, Asuka is the real-life equivalent of this character called "Lucy." I won't get into that right now.
Asuka.
.She's not that bad to look AT, actually. In fact, she's downright gorgeous. Too bad her personality more than compensates for
this generous distribution of physical beauty. I wondered about that the minute I met her. What was with this world, I asked
myself. All the most beautiful girls suffered from psychological problems so frightening that Freud would've just jumped off a
bridge, sick of it all. It's weird, that's what it is. In case you need some clarification, here we go. Misato is a slob, and she spent
several years in an institution staring at her feet. Rei. damn. I don't even want to start with her. Asuka suffers from constant
PMS. Maya. well, actually, Maya is okay, but I seriously think she's a lesbian or something. Ritsuko. Jesus, she's either a
lesbian or in love with my dad. MY DAD. You can't get worse than that. Falling in love with my dad is like falling into a meat
grinder. It might be thrilling at first, and even when you touch the blades they might scratch some itch you happened to have on
the top of your head. But, over time. it starts to hurt. It starts to hurt and hurt and finally you just can't feel anything anymore,
you're just. dead.
I sure wish I was like that. Unfeeling, I mean. I'm not sure about the dead thing.
Yet, I mean. I'm not sure yet.
I really wish she would stop talking about her job.
It's starting to bother me.