When you’re shut off from the world, that’s when you find out who you really are.
Every waking moment becomes dedicated to the one thing that you can find happiness in.
Some people start stuffing their face, turning their loneliness into a feast to gorge themselves on. Food drives them to abandon all hope of any joy but that of its tender taste.
But it’s never enough.
Others try to get a taste of how things used to be. They open their bed to any nearby stranger, enjoying the fleeting touch of another in order to quench their desire for companionship.
But it’s never enough.
Then there are those who turn to herbal remedies. They do their intoxicating deed from dawn ‘til dusk, losing themselves in a venomous haze so that maybe they’ll forget about their daily torture.
But it’s never enough.
Because all of those things don’t address the root problem, they are just a temporary fix. Meant to distract us from the shit we’ve sunk into, they are nothing more than a band aid on an amputation.
Never enough.
I know what you’re thinking. I must be talking about Jet Set Radio.
Ether never stops eating. It’s become her shield against a cruel world that has rejected her. It’s the only thing that brings her joy.
But it’s never enough, is it Ether?
Tag will fuck anything that moves. But he won’t settle into the warm embrace of a lover, instead settling for paltry one night stands and a euphoric orgasmic haze.
But it’s never enough, is it Tag?
Wiz loves his herbs. He smokes, swallows, and snorts anything that he can, and he even drank the Viper’s fowl liquid to try to get some semblance of belonging.
But it’s never enough, is it Wiz?
It all makes sense when I put it like that, but I’m not talking about JSR at all.
I’m talking about myself.
See, when I woke up all those years ago, I was shut off from the world. Alone. Bereft of all warmth but my own.
I had to find out who I really was.
I gorged on death, drowning my loneliness in the blood of others. Innocent or guilty, they all felt my wrath. The taste of flesh was all that brought me joy.
Alice. Wonderland. But it wasn’t enough.
I reached out to strange bedfellows, letting them use me to bolster my own confidence.
Banzan. Bishop. But it wasn’t enough.
My herbal remedy of choice was that of brotherhood, of intoxicating myself with the likeminded splendor of mayhem and destruction.
Storm. Zero. But it wasn’t enough.
Yet it taught me who I was.
See, I’m not talking about Pammy Hart.
That’s not the real me.
I’m talking about the fire.
About Pyre.
That’s who I am.
An eternally hungry flame, devouring all who come in her path.
A searing inferno, letting anyone kindle my orgasmic fervor.
A scintillating blaze, smoking the entire world under my touch.
My happiness lies in both everything and nothing at all.
Because when I’m done, everything will have burned.
Nothing will be left.
Nothing but me.
Pyre.
And I am enough.