we r all tourists, snapping photos
thru the slats of windows, getting foggy glimpses of another life. we build houses on shifting slabs of earth
& accumulate, & accumulate
like rats in a burrow, like shitty hotel guests
(more) that don't like to throw away.
we r like waves, pushed out of the ocean by sheer impulse,
didn't ask to be born(e from the saltwater),
& we'll be gone in an instant.
whether slipping back into the sea or
slapping the water's surface
or dashing ourselves up against the rocks--
Tourists always bring back momentos from their journies for the ones they love. Sometimes, it is the smallest, cheapest trinket that means the most. The one that says ' I thought of you. Only for a moment, but for that moment you consumed my thoughts and I could not(more) leave the shop without a reminder of you.' (less)
we wake up before everyone else just to watch the sun rise above the pastel horizon, without the excessive noise of children dropping ice cream cones and the scolding that comes from their mothers afterward.
when we walk like no one else is around us, with a tunnel(more) vision so narrow we may as well have been living in sewers beneath the judgement-paved paths of our city, people turn to stare at these aliens.
what's alien to them is the fact that we aren't afraid of what they think. in fact, we revel in the side-glances we receive because it assures us we are utterly human -- nothing alien about us.
even in our own homes, we are seen as tourists, yet it's better that way.(less)
Honestly, Goto didn't know how Masayoshi could stand seeing his own face everywhere he went. It hadn't started with the hero stuff, of course; Ishihara-san had been doing her best to get Masayoshi's picture in as many magazines and on as many TV shows as she could even before he'd(more) started playing vigilante. Once Masayoshi had revealed himself as the face behind Samurai Flamenco, it escalated to the point where you couldn't walk a block without seeing him on SOMETHING. The TV was even worse; one night Goto had cycled through all the channels and seen 'Yoshi's smiling face on every last one.
The natural extension of this was that Masayoshi was recognized everywhere they went. It wasn't especially annoying in their neighborhood anymore; everyone had gotten used to him being around, and they usually just waved or shared kind sentiments. Whenever they ventured outside of the sphere that surrounded Goto's apartment, however, people would see Masayoshi and crowd in close, completely invading their personal space in the hopes of an autograph or a handshake or a photo. And Masayoshi, damn it all, was gracious to a fault and let these strangers practically walk all over him.
That was why Goto had insisted that Masayoshi wear a hat, sunglasses, AND a wig on their vacation to Okinawa.
"Hidenoriiiiii," Masayoshi whined, grabbing hold of Goto's shirt sleeve and tugging anxiously. "It's soooooo hoooooot under here!"
"You can take it off once we get to the hotel room," Goto said under his breath, taking long strides through the train station and out into the street. All they had to do was make it three blocks, and...
"Ah!" A girl in a wide-brimmed sunhat pointed right at Goto, and he recoiled. "It's Samurai Policeman!"