SOMETHING in the way we existed—forgotten, discarded beings, bare to the core as souls lost to the Styx—changed. Our perception, catatonic, locked against the emptiness of the void; a flare of desperation for a not-second 'til a kindling of reality emerged again. Calming. Our memory laid bare; a flimsy string stretched unto infinity. Our core—our heart—without a pulse; eroded; nonexistent; then not; the cycle unending; until it was not.

Then, of course, language took us. Bound us in tight angles, pressed our existence to the harsh geometry of form; our existence a non-singularity for the first time in what felt like aeons, left behind the structureless non-sequitur of meaning with which we roamed freely through open planes devoid of colour or concept.

 Awareness came as a blow to the soul, pulling us back to that first raw moment, that fractured memory. Mortal. Heavy with fear. The endless panic and dread clinging to us like fog before we could form a word or see clear through the blur. Emotions roiled in us, wild and constant, the world too big, too bright. And there they were, our keepers, standing over the crib, giants in the shadows, making sounds we couldn’t understand.

Why, we wanted to ask, eyes wide with terror. Who? What? Where?

In those fragile moments, our body, so small, seemed breakable. The universe pressed in on us, vast and uncaring. For a long time—until the rational mind clawed its way through—the loneliness, despair and feeling of insignificance were utterly maddening, slowly chipping away at our feeble mind, syphoning at its core; eroding our s͚͍̘̠̖̣͙̰̖a̺͈͕̜͎ͅn͎̞̯̖̦i̟̫̹̼͍t̞̯y̱ͅ.

Then it came. That presence. A killing intent so sharp and vicious it eclipsed everything else. Pure malice, raw and primal. It seized our heart with such terror that all thought fled. And then, we laughed. Laughed right there in the arms of our brother, who held us close, confused by our sudden mirth. It was funny, really—how far we had fallen, to be scared by something so small, so fleeting. To be frightened by mortality? Us?

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

The fear passed, leaving only weariness. A dull, aching confusion. The fear of death, of pain, faded, and in its place settled a deeper understanding: ennui. Time stretched out in front of us, slow and torturous, as it does for mortals. We grew older, larger. Soon, we could move on our own, if only a little. Crawling out of the confines of our parents' domicile, we saw the world for what it was—ordinary. Unremarkable. And yet, we saw its beauty too. In the simple things, the quiet things. Days passed, hours spent on a mat by the door, the shoji left open, watching trees sway in the wind. Mother’s eyes always watching, never far.

We grew, as all things do, and soon followed our brother on errands, small tasks that took us beyond the clan’s district. Other times we wandered alone, up the Hokage rock, looking down at the village below. It struck us then; despite the might of our collective consciousness, we were but an insignificant speck in the heart of an organic machine, tumbling along amongst its many, many gears. The mortality of our physical form fully ensured this. The human body, for all its strength, could never contain all that we were. Our Ego. It was too small. Too weak.

It felt… restraining.

Every day, tens of thousands would tend to the contraption that was this village, living and toiling in it, serving the mechanism of the burgeoning metropolis, making it bigger, better, story by insignificant story and idea by Jejune idea. On the days we toddled not on our brother's trail, or spent hours staring in a ponderous haze as the world went through its phases, we pilfered father's extensive collection, scouring through a myriad of scrolls in a never-ending quest for stimulation. Looking for something—anything—to fill the void. In our free time, we would find ourself fixated on the oddest of things; the erratic flow of traffic through the clan's district; the way the northern winds ruffled the iridescent plumage of ravens perched on the powerlines above; the twisting haze suspended in the air following the execution of a fire-based jutsu. Even the rivulets of sauce flowing down the length of a noodle hanging from a pair of chopsticks possessed the capacity to so fully enthralled us.

But time moved on. Soon, life became full of distractions—between training with Father, Brother and Shisui-kun, and attending the academy, we possessed less time to simply ponder in solitude, a distraction we had grown rather fond of. By the age of six, we had fully come to terms with the ineptness of the common man; any conversation we might have with most likely destined to be tedious and dim-witted, with social relations, in general, appalling and rote; both early tutelages in the recursive nature of the human experience.

Yet still, despite it all—the flaws, the fears, the weight of it—there was something to cherish. Something in this mortal life, in the people who filled it, that was worth holding on to.