Poetry · Dazaiosamu
On a Memory of Dissociation
He once spokeof his first dissociative memory:It happened in a shaded roomat her aunt’s house.She sat across from me,damp chill pressing inthrough the frost-laced window—settling on our skin.Suddenly—a feeling.A sharp kind of foresight.Or empathy.“Right now,”“we both wish to become some kind of sea creature.”She leaned in the southwest corner,fingering an old toy car from her childhood.I thought of things I couldn’t tell her—still haven’t.Restless, childish shame.Then,she began—speaking freelyof her father’s time at sea.That part of the ocean, she said,was always fogged over.Its color—red,like mermaid scales.“He kept a crown of jasmine and wisteria on board,”she told me.I hesitated,unsure what to say.Then she added:“He might have loved my mother.”I stayed quiet.Just looked at her,etching her cat-like, fragile faceinto some concealed corner of my heart.The tide drew in.We lit a small fire.She played piano for a while—then grew drowsy,curled into the chair,eyes closed.I gazed at her,speechless,wanting to say:Out on the sea tonight,the fog is rising—algae breathe slow,tired.And far, far off,a strange, beautiful songcalls in the dark.Too many quiet things.But I—I could not tell her.The flames dimmed.Ash scented the air.The wind outsidehad stilled.And in our hearts—only soft, gray noise.