Cycle I: Coming on Strong
The Hidden Voice
Record ~ Kawaii · 14 (v1.00)
THE HOUSE OF ZAN — Zan
♡ NANAOAKARI — Discommunication Alien
OPENING: あなたはどう感じた？
I have a complaint.
Reality keeps interrupting my plans.
I was getting along perfectly well with my imagination.
Everything was interesting.
Everybody was fascinating.
The possibilities were practically endless.
And whenever something became inconvenient, I could simply imagine a different possibility.
A wonderful arrangement!
Then reality showed up again.
With actual people.
Who have actual opinions.
Including opinions about me.
…
I hadn’t authorized that.
Naturally, I’d prepared several opinions about them.
Some thoughtful.
Others perhaps a little unfair.
But I’m willing to reconsider those.
Under suitable conditions.
The trouble is, I’ve become very good at examining people without necessarily getting to know them.
I can consider what somebody might want.
Why they behave a certain way.
Whether their expectations are realistic.
Whether they’re being honest about their intentions.
Whether they’re even aware of their intentions.
It’s fascinating!
In fact, I’ve been considering a little award.
For Outstanding Contributions to Noticing Other People’s Nonsense.
Something tasteful.
A small trophy, perhaps.
(๑•̀ㅂ•́)و✧
Unfortunately, somebody has raised an objection.
Apparently, recognizing what other people are doing wrong doesn’t automatically make me wonderful company.
…
Excuse me?
And here I was preparing my acceptance speech.
…
Let’s backtrack.
Not all the way to Onett.
I don’t think we need to restart the entire adventure.
Just far enough to find out whether I’ve been following the right map.
Because I know what interests me about other people.
I know what makes somebody seem exciting.
I know how quickly a few unusual details can turn a stranger into somebody I want to understand.
What I’m less certain about is what happens when they become interested in understanding me.
That’s a slightly different adventure.
One I haven’t prepared nearly as thoroughly.
I could begin with an introduction.
I’m quite good at those.
Curious.
Creative.
Thoughtful.
Excellent conversationalist.
Possesses unusual intellectual abilities.
Hmm.
Perhaps that last one sounds a little excessive.
I’ll replace it.
Extremely modest.
Much better.
(￣▽￣)ゞ
But suppose somebody reads my beautiful introduction and decides they’d like to talk.
Wonderful!
That’s exactly what I wanted.
Isn’t it?
They ask about music.
Easy.
I have opinions.
They ask about stories.
Even better.
I have considerably more opinions.
They ask whether I always have this much to say.
…
Well.
That’s an interesting question.
Are they impressed?
Concerned?
I think I’ll ask.
Because it turns out an introduction can’t tell somebody everything about spending time with me.
Neither can a list of my intentions.
I might genuinely want to listen.
But what happens when somebody tells me something I don’t understand?
Or when they disagree with an opinion I’ve spent an impressive amount of time developing?
I’m perfectly capable of listening to another perspective.
That doesn’t mean I’ll appreciate it.
And I don’t think I should pretend otherwise.
Some disagreements are interesting.
Some reveal something worth reconsidering.
Others make me wonder how two perfectly intelligent people managed to arrive on entirely different planets.
Amazing!
We’ve barely started talking, and already we require interplanetary diplomacy.
(⊙_⊙;)
But perhaps that’s part of what I keep forgetting.
Another person doesn’t arrive as a completed description.
Neither do I.
We begin with whatever we’re willing to share.
A few interests.
Some opinions.
Something we find funny.
Something we’d like to know.
And then, if we continue talking, we discover the parts that didn’t fit into our introductions.
Sometimes those are the best parts.
I especially like when somebody mentions an unusual interest almost apologetically.
Something they’ve kept to themselves because they aren’t sure anybody else will understand.
Wait.
You like that?
Tell me more!
That’s exciting.
But I have to admit something.
I’d rather discover an unexpected quality in somebody else than have them discover one in me.
At least initially.
I’m much more comfortable being the curious person asking questions.
I like knowing where I stand.
And when I’m asking the questions, I usually do.
Being examined in return is considerably less convenient.
What if they notice that I’m stubborn?
Or that I sometimes pretend to understand something because I’m too proud to ask again?
What if they think I’m being serious when I’m joking?
Or joking when I have something important to say?
Worse, what if they decide that one of my least impressive qualities is actually rather endearing?
No!
That wasn’t one of the things I was trying to show them.
I’ve prepared a list.
Several, actually.
…
Unfortunately, they didn’t ask for it.
(⁄ ⁄•⁄-⁄•⁄ ⁄)
I suppose another person doesn’t have to use my list.
They might notice something I hadn’t considered.
They might misunderstand something I thought was obvious.
And they might form an opinion I don’t particularly enjoy hearing.
I don’t have to agree with it.
Still, it would belong to them.
How inconvenient.
I’m beginning to understand why imaginary conversations are so popular.
I can say something clever.
The other person can respond exactly as I’d hoped.
Nobody notices when I hesitate.
Perfect!
…
Except it isn’t a conversation.
It’s a performance I’ve invented for myself.
And my imaginary audience never tells me anything I haven’t already thought of.
I’d rather meet somebody who can surprise me.
Even if it means they occasionally catch me off guard.
And perhaps they want the same thing.
Perhaps they want to discover whether the person behind my introduction is somebody they actually enjoy knowing.
Not just somebody who sounds interesting.
Somebody who can be present when the conversation doesn’t go exactly as planned.
I don’t think that’s unreasonable.
But it does mean I can’t remain entirely inside my imagination.
At some point, I have to participate.
I’ve changed my mind about things.
I’ve discovered interests I didn’t expect to enjoy.
I’ve even reconsidered a few opinions I once defended rather enthusiastically.
Privately.
There’s no need to make a public announcement every time I’m wrong.
It would create unrealistic expectations.
But if I can change through experiences I couldn’t fully imagine, so can somebody else.
They might discover something new.
Change their mind.
Surprise themselves.
Or surprise me.
And I may not appreciate every surprise.
There are limits.
But changing doesn’t automatically mean somebody was pretending before.
I could meet somebody whose ideas seem perfectly compatible with mine.
We could agree about all kinds of wonderful things.
Music.
Stories.
Whether an enormous castle requires a library.
Obviously.
What kind of castle doesn’t have a library?
ฅ^•ﻌ•^ฅ
And yet, after spending time together, we might discover that we don’t enjoy each other’s company as much as we’d imagined.
That would be disappointing.
I’d have already made several recommendations for the castle.
But perhaps we’d also discover something neither of us expected.
An interest we hadn’t thought to mention.
A sense of humor that takes a little time to understand.
An appreciation for the way the other person sees something ordinary.
We might even begin to matter to each other.
I like that thought.
Although mattering sounds considerably more complicated than being interesting.
Being interesting sounds straightforward.
Find something unusual to say, and somebody might pay attention.
But mattering to somebody involves what happens afterward.
When the introduction has finished.
When there isn’t anything particularly impressive to announce.
When somebody has something to say and I’m there to hear it.
That’s different.
And I don’t think I can promise in advance exactly what that will look like.
I can say I’d like to be good company.
I can intend to be thoughtful.
But another person won’t experience my intentions.
They’ll experience me.
With my peculiar interests.
My opinions.
My occasionally questionable judgment.
And whatever else becomes apparent once somebody spends enough time discovering it.
…
I think that’s rather exciting.
A little alarming.
But exciting.
Because I don’t want somebody to know only the version of me I’ve decided is most impressive.
That would be a terribly limited introduction.
Especially when I haven’t even decided what I’d like them to know next.
Eventually.
When appropriate.
Under suitable conditions.
Oh, don’t look at me like that.
I’m allowed to be selective.
Knowing somebody doesn’t require knowing everything.
And wanting companionship doesn’t mean offering every part of yourself to anyone who asks.
I can decide what I’m comfortable sharing.
They can decide what they’re comfortable sharing.
Neither of us has to know immediately whether the other person will become important.
And neither has to promise to remain exactly the same forever.
What an impossible promise that would be.
I can’t even guarantee that I’ll like the same song next month.
Although there are some songs I will defend indefinitely.
Even if everybody else is wrong.
Especially then.
But if I genuinely want to know somebody, I suppose I have to give them the opportunity to become more than a possibility.
A name.
A picture.
A few messages.
A person who seems fascinating from a comfortable distance.
Those things can begin something.
They can’t tell me what it will become.
And no matter how wonderful an introduction sounds, I can’t decide the outcome by myself.
That’s the part I find both frustrating and rather lovely.
There will be another person.
With their own thoughts.
Their own expectations.
Their own understanding of what matters.
Someone who might enjoy my company.
Someone who might not.
Someone whose life could become a little more interesting because we met.
And who might make mine more interesting, too.
Or perhaps we’ll have one enjoyable conversation and go our separate ways.
That wouldn’t necessarily be a tragedy.
Not every interesting possibility needs to become an important relationship.
Still, I rather like leaving a little room for something unexpected.
Within reason.
I do have a reputation to maintain.
Although, come to think of it, I’m not entirely sure what that reputation is.
I know what I’d like it to be.
Other people may have different ideas.
…
How troublesome.
I suppose I’ll have to find out.
Which brings me back to reality.
Still here.
Still complicated.
Still filled with people who haven’t learned to behave according to my carefully considered preferences.
And somehow, despite everything, I’m still interested.
I’d like to know what somebody thinks.
What makes them laugh.
What they find important.
What they’ve changed their mind about.
What they haven’t.
I’d like to know what they notice about me.
Even if the answer is occasionally inconvenient.
I don’t need to prepare a speech explaining why I would make an exceptional addition to somebody’s life.
Although I could.
With illustrations.
Possibly music!
…
No.
Perhaps that’s a little much.
Just an introduction, then.
Something simple.
Something that leaves room for the other person to respond.
I wonder what they’ll say.
Maybe something that makes me reconsider an opinion.
Or maybe they’ll simply say hello.
And I’ll have to decide what to say next.
…
I think I can manage that.
But if somebody could invent a little alarm that tells me when an ordinary conversation is about to become important, I’d appreciate it.
Nothing dramatic.
Just a small announcement.
Attention!
This person may become significant.
Please prepare accordingly.
Σ(･ω･ﾉ)ﾉ
Actually, no.
That’s a terrible idea.
I’d spend the entire conversation trying to figure out what the alarm meant.
I’d probably miss whatever made the person interesting in the first place.
Never mind!
No alarm.
Just another person.
And me.
…
Hello!
What were you going to tell me?
ENDING: How did it feel to you?