Frantic Summer · Dazaiosamu
A Memory of Dissociation
He spoke this way of the first time he dissociated:It was in the shaded room at her aunt's house. I watched her as damp cold, passing through the frosted window, laid itself over the surface of our skinSuddenly I had a feelinga fierce premonition, or empathy“At this moment, she and I both want to become any kind of sea creature”She sat leaning in the southwest corner of the room, fiddling with a toy car from childhoodI began to dwell on things I could not tell her and still have not told herchildishly ill at easeSuddenly, without reserve, she began to tell me of her father's voyagesthat stretch of sea was often engulfed in mist, red as mermaid scales“He always kept aboard those wreaths woven from winter jasmine and wisteria”I hesitated, not knowing what to say; then she added“Perhaps he loved my mother very much”I said nothing, only stared blankly at her, drawing her fragile, catlike face in a hidden corner of my heart The tide arrivedWe kindled a little fireShe played the piano for me for a while, then, as if drowsy, nestled into the chair and closed both eyesI gazed at her absently, wanting to tell her that banks of mist had risen from the sea at nightthose algae, their utterly exhausted breathingand from far out at sea there seemed to come a wondrous, uncanny songtoo many hushed secretsbut alas, I could notI—I could not tell her The flame sank low, the wood ash fragrantthe wind outside had grown somewhat stilland our hearts were full of ash-white static