Boulevard of Broken Dreams

Disclaimer: I own neither Green Day's "Boulevard of Broken Dreams" nor Ai Yazawa's Nana.

Is there anything out there besides drumming calloused fingers on freezing windowpanes until they stick together, adhering like a fly to the sticky yellow paper his sister has always insisted upon sticking in the flowerbed? Is there anything out there besides blinding lights on a locomotive in the distance, enticing his sorrow, his boredom, his inner idealism? Is there anything out there at all, or is everything he knows just a grand illusion crafted for some higher power's amusement?

He's always tried to smash the illusion. It never works.

Slouched and alone, that's how he pictures himself, a rainy day in Tokyo, dry in a door and smoking, never shivering, doing everything in his power to keep from shivering, hair lank and drenched. If anyone were to ask, of course, which no one (thankfully) ever would. He hates lying. That's why he does it so much.

Where did it turn from frustration, anger, pure lashing out like a cat that's been slapped, to self-hate and punishment and a twisted masochism? When did he desire to be caught, to be shamed, thrown out, an afterthought? When did he think it would be all right, relieving, to just leave it all behind and start from scratch? When did the false smiles and charm, the work, when did it all become so unbearable?

When did the music cease to head his priorities, or even be included in the top five? When did he stop hearing her voice, her pure, clear voice? When did she stop singing with all her soul? He couldn't tell.

When did anyone else notice? Oh, right, never.

He can get away with anything, really. He can kiss Ren full-on and not worry about boundaries or consequences or being nakama or how loud they're being because fuck it, no one cares about him. Ren knows it, too, consciously or no (not that that matters). And he does this for himself, but Ren's the only one who gets any pleasure about it, and he just wakes up feeling number than before, more unhinged, detached, solitary. That's not the way it should work, but life was never fucking fair. And it's been fairer to him than it could have been, than it would have been.

And soon enough, of course, Ren is ripped from his fingers that were just getting used to having something remember their touch, something that isn't a baseball bat or a guitar, something that is a person and not just a doll or an inanimate object, intangible in some way that makes his fingers reach harder and stronger for it, for him, to hold on.

The world around him is shuttered, cold, the neon signs automatic and frivolous, conveying none of the life and excitement that they are fabled to bring out in viewers, maybe they do bring out strong and freewheeling emotions in the innocent, awed tourists who have never been outside of a rice field before in their self-contained lives. The city is heartless, a fair-weather friend. He's never felt loneliness this deep, deeper than any lake, even lakes in Russia that are frozen ten months out of the year. It's shattered his core, and he goes on numbly. He eats breakfast with his wife and goes to the studio except there's nothing to record; everything becomes ambient noise when there's no soul.

He can't be the soul. Maybe he's not strong enough; maybe he just can't understand. It doesn't matter. It's just the same commercial shit, even when he plays both tracks, guitar and bass, over one another. It's generic. Reira's voice deserves something better. And even that is so far away from him. Maybe he didn't mean to make her into a caged bird, Rapunzel, far away and on top of a smooth steel tower. Maybe he didn't want to risk anything else. It's impossible to look back and see his motivations; he doesn't remember.

They all trail off like burning matches.

From the balcony, the night is empty. Nana is asleep, still half-innocent, in the room behind him. He wishes sometimes that he could help, that he could let her save him. But it wouldn't be fair to either of them, or to anyone else, not that he knows who is supposed to step in here. Maybe the father that was never around, the one who fucked him over in the first place? What use is speculation? And yet Nana spends her days worrying over the other Nana, over Blast. If she was just going to be their chief groupie/manager/whatever the hell she his to them, then why did she get with him? He's no glamorous rock star, just the guy on the edge of the poster.

If he leaves, she won't really be affected. Oh, she'll cry and carry on a bit, but even with the baby, she can build a new life and will forget him except for an occasional fleeting thought of what might have been. She may be indecisive, but she's resilient. And what about Reira? She claims to love him, but she just needs an object for her pent-up emotions. He knows the way that feels all too well.

The wind whips at his face. It's not worth it to light up a cigarette; it would just blow out. It's not even worth it to keep walking, really, but he does anyway.