I had a dream the previous night that now eludes me almost entirely, except for a hazy vision of a ghastly flame filling my vision, and my ears flooded with cries of anguish. Another dream I had several months prior came to me, one of hellfire. It pushed me from my center, beckoning a distant memory of sun-soaked Saturdays spent reading Barefoot Gen.
12 years ago, I was 9 years old. I borrowed volumes of the manga from my Japanese Saturday school's library and read them in quick succession. It grasped me tightly in its maw, unforgiving for my eyes, pruning me from this sense of fantasy. One that disconnected me from stories heard through thin walls in the countryside. Even with its stylized delivery, it proved more than enough to carve haunting images in my childlike mind depicting melting flesh and empty eye sockets, dark and enveloped by candle wax.
7 years ago, I was 14 years old. I visited Ground Zero in November 2016. My hotel overlooked the Motoyasu River on the third floor, serving as a partition between myself and Genbaku dome. A few specific panels came to mind from the series, in particular one of putrefaction, buoyant like a fishing bobber in stagnant water.
Silence fell when I crossed the bridge, songs of birds and the droning of engines ceasing to reach my ears.
Outside encased in several glass cases were ropes of origami cranes hanging from hooks, notes on them stating origins from all over the world, Ethiopia, the United States, and Korea (I confidently remember those three but countless more), several dozen sets of thousand paper cranes engulfed me. A testament to Sadako Sasaki.
A heaviness clung to the air, weighing everything down, leaves shudder under its weight and fall to the ground, covering every inch of the ground in a brilliant gold, reminiscent of a Klimt painting, or more appropriately Kinkakuji.
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I received a gift from my maternal uncle before the trip, a book. A simple manila cover with black text on the spine, within it harrowing photographs of the aftermath. I seldom open it anymore, but regardless keep it nearby at all times. It now sits on my bookcase in my cluttered bedroom, untouched.

From a diary entry, December 29th 2023 11:19pm
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