Categories > Anime/Manga > Tsubasa/xxxHolic
xxxHOLiC © a lot of people who are not me.
Spoilers for like, ch70ish? if you know what I'm talking about, anyway.
leik omg r&r plz kthx.
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It's about what you choose, isn't it?
The bow is heavy in his hands. It doesn't like this, doesn't like what he's thinking. Maybe his bow can't think but he's always believed it could. It's from his grandfather, after all.
He lifts the bow.
If the choice is between being hated and someone not being there to hate him, he'd rather be hated. He'd rather see him there. It's not the hate he minds, but the absence.
He draws the string.
Indifference is worse than hate. Hate is strong, real: it leaves scorched edges along your nerves. Love is better, of course, but anything is better than nothing at all. Hate has prickly edges and textures. You can touch it and know it's there. He isn't sure what love is like but he thinks it must be full of smooth textures that you could run your hands over for hours, every one of them unique and fascinating.
He sights along the bow.
This is different than firing at a target in the dojo. There's no arrow to concentrate on, so it's harder. Sometimes he thinks he can feel a phantom arrow in his hand. Only sometimes, though, and he never thought to ask his grandfather and he doesn't know how to ask Yuuko-san. Watanuki said once his shadow was holding an arrow.
He waits.
The arrow wants the target, his grandfather had said. Everything is in the wanting. What you are is the catalyst for the arrow. Someday you'll find your target and the only thing you can do is be drawn toward it, without will or reluctance. It will call and you will answer. Even if someone hates you. Even if they never speak to you again. Even if they close themselves off from you. Even if.
He is the arrow and the target calls him.
He lets go.
Spoilers for like, ch70ish? if you know what I'm talking about, anyway.
leik omg r&r plz kthx.
---
It's about what you choose, isn't it?
The bow is heavy in his hands. It doesn't like this, doesn't like what he's thinking. Maybe his bow can't think but he's always believed it could. It's from his grandfather, after all.
He lifts the bow.
If the choice is between being hated and someone not being there to hate him, he'd rather be hated. He'd rather see him there. It's not the hate he minds, but the absence.
He draws the string.
Indifference is worse than hate. Hate is strong, real: it leaves scorched edges along your nerves. Love is better, of course, but anything is better than nothing at all. Hate has prickly edges and textures. You can touch it and know it's there. He isn't sure what love is like but he thinks it must be full of smooth textures that you could run your hands over for hours, every one of them unique and fascinating.
He sights along the bow.
This is different than firing at a target in the dojo. There's no arrow to concentrate on, so it's harder. Sometimes he thinks he can feel a phantom arrow in his hand. Only sometimes, though, and he never thought to ask his grandfather and he doesn't know how to ask Yuuko-san. Watanuki said once his shadow was holding an arrow.
He waits.
The arrow wants the target, his grandfather had said. Everything is in the wanting. What you are is the catalyst for the arrow. Someday you'll find your target and the only thing you can do is be drawn toward it, without will or reluctance. It will call and you will answer. Even if someone hates you. Even if they never speak to you again. Even if they close themselves off from you. Even if.
He is the arrow and the target calls him.
He lets go.
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