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She knows her enthusiasm to be naught but a product of mangled thoughts—only, she is bereft of a mangled background, making what is stated before to transform into something unjustifiable. Of course, that goes without saying; she already knows herself to be a rather strange existence, some sort of misshapen thing that knows things but acts as if she knows nothing.
She comprehends that. She may often ignore that—for her selfish, slothful reasons, of course—but, still, she comprehends that.
Even so, Asya Shibuna shan’t ever stop dreaming the existence that is Ira Grachevskaya.
Even now, as she walks, hearing the sound of snow compressing with each step, she knows this routine to be another way that affection has pervaded the everyday. Her eyes drift aimlessly, drinking, swallowing the sights before her—only, she’s underdrinking the contents before her, unable to muster an affection for it now that her heart holds such mangled wishes.
Ira looked to be in such a pitiful state.
Some incessant part of Asya found something akin to love, even for such a shriveled state.
Really, how much worse could she get?
Even these warped feelings are not for Ira.
Were anyone else to give her that same kindness the Universe gave, she would act that same way with them. Really, her feelings aren’t anything special towards Ira, and is that not a cruelty of some sort?
Really, she’s being shallow.
A breeze travels with Asya, pushing her hair in the same direction. No, not really a breeze; to put it like that would give a bit of a misunderstanding. The wind’s been accompanying her, and rather than being an irregularity, the speed has been stable.
Asya doesn’t know how she perceived it to be an irregularity just now.
At the corner of her eye are some other kids, adorned in thick clothing—naturally, of course—chatting with one another. Asya knows them to be classmates. She can’t quite remember their names, though. Really, it’s a cruel thing, not remembering the name of peers. Names may be an arbitrary thing, a thing that Man has made for himself and for his companions, but he’s grown accustomed to it, and now, everything must hold a name in his eyes. Because of that, shouldn’t Asya try and learn what is now a necessity?
Even the Universe has a name.
Shouldn’t she try to hold that knowledge?
Asya’s long since passed those classmates. She’s by the vents near the institute, feeling its unnatural warmth engulf that cold in her flesh. The cigarette buds are still there, plentiful as ever.
Asya’s at the centre. She looks around, appearing like a lost puppy, unsure of where to go or what to do without a clear person in mind when those steps and actions are taken.
Asya’s at the row of garages. She looks at the wooden wall, and there isn’t someone to startle over there anymore.
She’s in her room again.
Her unjustifiably warped mind accrues self-flagellation.
It’s unproductive.
She should write that poem soon.