Still Life

The ride down felt interminable. I was restless; I wanted to start running and not turn back. The sketchbook’s vinyl cover was sticky in my sweaty hands. I was choking, breathless in the confines of the cramped elevator cab.

The thought of my mother, standing alone on the other side of the cold, steel door of our apartment filled my lungs with leaden dread. Each floor that passed felt like a step deeper into an abyss, my heartbeat pounding harder, deeper, desperate to escape the confines of my chest.

The metal doors opened to the ground floor and I bolted out, bumping into a couple waiting for the lift, but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t stop.

The light outside was blinding and I could barely look at the ground ahead of me as I ran out and up the narrow street. The smells and sounds of the inner city mixed with my turmoil sent my mind into a disoriented flurry of chaos. The feeling of the sun’s warmth on my skin was the only familiar anchor.

I ran for what seemed like an eternity, until I could run no more. I knew my body had become weaker, that I had lost my youthful vigour. My legs gave way beneath me, my lungs burning from the effort. I staggered to a halt, bending forwards, sweat dripping from my brow.

My breath came in ragged gasps, my heart pounding in my chest. I closed my eyes, momentarily surrendering to the pitch-black darkness that was always at the edge of my vision, desperately trying to regain my bearings.

As I gasped for air, I was overwhelmed by an earthy, floral scent. I froze. It was a smell I hadn’t experienced since leaving the village, a familiar smell that would waft through the open screen doors of my old home during the spring.

Suddenly, I was no longer on this bustling city street, but back in the quiet solitude of my old home. I could almost feel the coolness of the afternoon breeze, hear the rustling of the leaves, and smell the thick, earthy aroma of damp soil mingling with the subtle sweetness of spring’s blossoms.

A mosaic of memories streamed in unbidden: the laughter of my friends as we raced to school on our bicycles, catching fish in the river with my sister in the summer, my father’s firm but gentle smile before everything changed. Even the rustic charm of our big old house, with its weathered wooden floorboards and worn tatami mats, seemed incredibly precious in the stark contrast of the cold concrete, steel, and glass that now surrounded me. Our household cat, her purring a constant, comforting rumble, would often lazily curl up in the sunny spots that dappled the verandah.

All of it filled my senses, offering a solace I hadn’t known I was seeking. The absence of colour did not rob these memories of their poignancy; rather, it seemed to heighten my recollection of the other sensations.

A new kind of ache gripped my heart, not born of fear or resentment, but of longing. Longing for a past I couldn’t return to, for a life I felt I’d lost. The feeling was mix of nostalgia, regret, and loss so profound it was almost paralysing.

Lost in the echoes of my past, I was unaware of the world shifting around me. The cacophonous symphony of the city softened, gently replaced by a different kind of melody: the laughter of children, the hum of families and friends chattering, and the distant strumming of a guitar punctuated by the off-key singing of a group of seemingly inebriated businessmen. An intensified sweetness, both hauntingly familiar and foreign, floated in the gentle, cooling breeze. It teased at my senses, an ethereal thread tethering my drifting mind back to reality.

Opening my eyes, I found myself standing before a large, indistinct silhouette. I blinked, adjusting my focus to the scene before me. Contrary to my initial assumption, it was not another nondescript building façade, but a large park bustling with people, filled with what looked like white clouds tethered to the ground by thick, black, leather straps. But they weren’t just any trees. I squinted at the strange blur of whites and blacks, my heart thundering in my chest as realisation washed over me.

Of course. Sakura. The sweet aroma I couldn’t place before was sakura in full bloom. The cacophony of laughter, the hum of conversation, the relaxed air - everything made sense now. It was Hanami season.

I found myself looking at the surreal spectacle of faces and cherry blossom trees, the white blossoms and black branches merging with the sea of people. A sight that once would have been a riot of pink was not a disorienting swirl of white and muddy grey, but the knowledge of what it represented shook me. It brought both an overwhelming sense of loss and unanticipated connection to the world I thought had forsaken me.

I was surprised to find such a large sanctuary of nature nestled amidst the heart of the city.

For a moment, I hesitated, standing at the boundary of the bustling city and the sprawling park. The scent of the cherry blossoms pulled me forward, inviting me into a world of subtle greys that promised a momentary escape from my bleak reality. I let my feet guide me into the park, hoping to drown the chaos of my thoughts in the comforting murmur of nature.

Just as I had come to terms with the scene before me, a hand clapped down on my shoulder, almost sending me sprawling. I whipped around to see a figure, taller than me and swaying, his arm draped around my shoulders as if we were long-lost brothers.

“Hey, hey!” He slurred, a wide gin on his face. “You’re white as a ghost, buddy! This ain’t no funeral, it’s Hanami. Hanami! Seriously the best damn time of year!”

Without waiting for my response, a glass cup was thrust in front of my face, the strong smell of sake wafting up to my nose. “Here, this’ll cheer ya up, buddy! Take a swig. Seriously!”

I blinked at him, struggling to process the unexpected encounter. “I, uh… I can’t. I’m underage,” I managed to stammer.

The man burst into laughter, a sound so hearty it made several nearby heads turn. He slapped my back heartily, almost causing me to lose my footing. “Underage! That’s seriously a good one, buddy, seriously,” he chortled, elbowing me hard in the ribs. “Go on, take it. I’m serious.”

His insistence was more bewildering than annoying. I tried to wriggle out of his surprisingly strong grip, praying for a way out. “No really, I should…” I tried to excuse myself, but my words were lost in another wave of his laughter

Two of his companions, also heavily under the influence but apparently more sensibly, suddenly appeared from behind him. “Oi, you idiot! Stop harassing the kid, you’re embarrassing yourself,” one of them scolded, smacking him on the back of the head and pulling him away. He shot me a wink, the corners of his mouth twitching as he tried to suppress a grin. “Sorry about him, seriously,” he called over his shoulder as they disappeared into the crowd.

“Cheer up, ghost boy! It’s Hanami, man, seriously! Hanami is seriously the best hey!” The drunken man’s voice echoed behind them, his words lost in the mix of laughter and chatter.

I felt the urge to retreat as the discomfort from the interaction coursed through me. The wave of excited voices that pulled me towards the park had become a relentless tide threatening to pull me under. I still yearned for quiet, and now I also needed an escape from the undercurrent of social interactions that I didn’t understand or want.

Guided by instinct more than any sense of direction, I started moving away from the thick of the crowd. My steps, uncertain at first, gained confidence as the clamour began to recede. The mass of faces and bodies all blended together in a swirling mass of whites and greys, as if the crowd was a single living being, flowing around me as I pressed onward.

Out of the greyscale sea emerged a flash of jet black, colliding with me in a swift flurry. The stark contrast of the dark hoodie against the dappled crowd felt jarring, even to my eyes. A soft apology emerged from the figure just as it left my own lips, our words overlapping in a rushed harmony.

I caught a glimpse of the girl’s face - pale and glistening in the sunlight - before, like a fleeting shadow, she was gone. Her quick disappearance left me standing at the edge of the path, caught in a strange mix of emotions. As our apologies faded into the crowd, the moment seemed to encapsulate the impermanence and anonymity that marked my new existence in this ashen world.

A strange sensation swept over me. The spot where the girl had emerged from, it felt different somehow, like a soft tug at my senses. Curiosity pricked at the edges of my thoughts. It was as if some unseen force was pulling me, urging me to explore. I found myself drawn to it, my feet moving almost of their own accord.

Every step I took further from the crowd, the world around me seemed to shift. The cacophony of laughter and chatter began to recede, replaced by the gentle lullaby of rustling leaves. The air seemed to change too - fresher, tinged with the subtle sweetness of spring blooms. As if crossing an invisible threshold, I found myself ensconced in a secluded grove, a hidden refuge by the lake, a sanctuary shielded from the hubbub of the open park by a curtain of dense foliage.

In the heart of this secluded haven, I discovered a solitary cherry blossom tree standing in silent sentinel. Embracing its waist was a shimenawa, a sign of its sacred consecration. Its blossoms wept petals into the gentle breeze. An air of solemnity and grace surrounded it, an aura that seemed to transcend the mundane. Yet, a sense of melancholy lingered, a quiet testament to loss, clinging to the petals that fell one by one onto the lake’s surface, their fleeting existence reflected at the endless sky.

My feet carried me closer, drawn towards the immense trunk as though by some magnetic pull. I tentatively brushed my fingers against the rough bark, feeling the history etched in its scars. The sweet aroma I had noticed before burst forth again, the scent of cherry blossom, a presence so vivid that it seemed to breathe life into the greyscale world around me.

A profound tranquility seeped into my soul, washing over the turmoil within me like a healing balm. The sakura, in all its silent splendour, stood defiant against the solitude, a testament to the enduring spirit of life. The unspoken strength of the tree stirred something within me, unearthing long-buried emotions. Yet, alongside the feelings of newfound serenity, a ripple of lingering sorrow surfaced, its source unknown, whispering through the symphony of rustling leaves and dancing blossoms.

The moment proved cathartic, subtly shifting they monotone landscape of my emotions. The strange mix of serenity and unnameable sorrow, however, confused me, leaving me grappling for an understanding that felt just out of reach. The sakura tree, standing silently, seemed to embody a cryptic message, one that was both compelling and elusive.

Then, like a spell, something within me stirred. My hands moved almost of their own volition towards my forgotten sketchbook, its pages bent and corners scuffed with overuse and neglect. The sight of the blank canvas, stark white against my grey world, pulled at strings in my heart I thought had long since been severed.

With every stroke on the paper, my connection with the sakura deepened. My hand moved, almost guided by an unseen muse, tracing the contours of the tree on the paper. A sense of familiarity washed over me as I surrendered to the rhythmic dance of graphite on paper.

The process was like a conduit to my past, evoking memories of a young boy who used to venture out into the world, sketchbook in hand, eager to capture the magic around him. The smell of the fresh air, the rustling of leaves, the feeling of sun-warmed grass underfoot - all these sensations came rushing back, awakening a piece of me I thought I had lost.

I sketched furiously, as if possessed by a rabid spirit. Each line was rough, each proportion abstract, but I was guided forward by the omnipresent eye of the sacred tree, whispering its form onto the paper. I was merely the instrument, a conduit through which the sakura tree poured its essence.

As I continued to sketch, tears welled up in my eyes, surprising me. I allowed them to fall freely, each drop a testament to the profound emotional release and the reconnection with a piece of myself I had nearly forgotten.

Time dissolved around me, existing only within the frenzied dance of graphite of paper. As the last line fell into place, I paused, a sudden exhaustion washing over me. I blinked the weariness from my eyes, looking down at the finished sketch that was a mirror to my feelings - rough, intense, and surprisingly alive.