Touhou Byakuren - Memories of a cosmic M

Memories of a Cosmic Mind
Chapter I - A young bamboo sprout waving by the change of seasons

How things came to be, of such could we ever truly be certain?
Past, remembered, is not how things truly happen, but just a phantasm of the facts
Nevertheless, the phantasm of my memories recall of a bird singing
And the purple rays of the sunset...
I soundly can still remember those shimmering still days of winter. At the stone steps, I used to sweep away the yesterday fallen snow. My old shoes hopelessly trying to fight the frost with no avail. From somewhere else, a bird sang that sweet tune, and images of tenderness would reach my minds. Ah yes, yet I was a girl, despite my maiden's body. A flower in bloom, muscles firmly knitted within my bones, earned through harsh daily training. A body fashioned slender and thin, however dense and strong, as the young bamboo sprout in the rushed winds of autumn. From mainland China, from a temple hidden inside a small forest, my family brought that Zen Buddhism art to strengthen our flesh and calm our mind. Even though such training was severe, even though the routine harsh, much glad I was in those days. Meshed deep in my body were the fruits of my sincere effort, for I was a strong healthy gal.

I say gladness filled my days back then, but that was only the product of intense willing from my part. To be true, those were hard times, and smiles were often followed by silent tears. And, would I dare to shed those tears, making them visible for all to see, the inclement winter would make them, and me, shatter. The big empty house, with it's big stone and wooden walls, now hosting only ghosts and long lost memories, once had many different smiles in it. Happy chatter, idle days bathing at the summer sun. You could still hear the fresh scent of berries well cooked in the now abandoned kitchen, each one accompanied with the taste of kind motherly words. At the afternoon, father would bring fish, and the children, tired from training and playing all day, would be back from their adventures. But these are figments of imagination, concepts of a life before even when I was girl in a maiden's body. Those were days where I could not even say what color was my hair, and name each petal that would fall from my heart. How many were I in those days? I could not say. In truth, I could not even count me apart of others, but I can say that I was everywhere in that old, old house. My feet stepped all those steps. My voice knew only kind words and happy screeches. My hair, which I could not name it's color, was everywhere, in every face, all different and yet the same.
Now I am able to tell that I'm one, but the house cannot forget that once there were more here. And that never ending reminiscence brings me joy and sadness. I welcome such joy as I welcome the snow and the sun, with lighthearted smile, and I fight this sadness as I fashion my muscles, with fiery determination. I must be iron to withstand it all, but iron is always so cold. Why do I fear cold so much? From somewhere else, may a bird sing that song of willingful kindness?

Though I could name myself as one, I could not count myself alone. There, on those winter slopes, brother would be back from the woods. Would he bring game from a successful hunt? Or would that be a night of serene hunger, grudging the cold weather? I might ready the fire and prepare the food, or maybe mildly embrace him and say kind comforting words. No need to be sad for an uneventful hunt, coming back with empty hands to show. Because coming back, both legs standing still, with a smile as tender as the spring, was something more than enough to show.

Sometimes, when his silhouette was outlined by the drowsing sunset, I could see all the purples of the dusk sky laid upon his hair. Never with less than kind words could I ever greet him, for never less than kindness have I ever felt beholding his figure coming near our forgotten house. Would that be a night of feasting? So we would fill our bellies. Would that be one of hunger? Then, we would fill our hearts, sitting next to each other. I would be silently smiling with fulfilled realization. He would giggle, aloud, by my side, the cutest tune, like a bird somewhat far, although near.

Now I'm a maiden, and also a girl ridden with fear. Do you remember, old stone cut house, when his warm kisses my front would host? When coldness was but a pleasureful scare, waiting to be pushed away by the tender embrace brother always would save for me? And, if my form would weaken during training, or my steps and strikes falter, there would he always be to correct my mistakes, to complement me.

Together, we guided our life far away from the world, together in our mausoleum of memories and dreams. Every day, exercising our bodies to withstand the elements, and our minds to withstand the suffering of life, we burned away like cherry blossoms. And I remember to have seen many others, young and handsome as they be, that would grab my fancy and redden my face. Yet, despite how handsome would those be, none would be like brother – for his body was a flower. If Nirvana's thousand petaled lotus did not have him there to greet me with his placid teaching smile, then Nirvana would not be enough for me.

But, through nature's inflexible grace, seasons change, and our desires follow them. There was I, a maiden, bones hard as steel, with my mind overbeared with fears. Those fears, I knew them well. They hunted me before, when the house was filled with happy chatter. And now they hunted me again. Why would brother lay down so cold? Many screams rushed my mind, and I knew somewhere else, although I could not hear, a bird was singing a tune. But I also knew that that tune was with a nature strange to kindness, the hot and warm kindness brother and I would be used to burn away throughout those lonely sorrowful seasons.

That long, longing lone cry of an unkind bird...should I reach it?

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