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Traits are passed down through heredity. They are passed from parent to child, and from child to grandchild and from grandchild to great grandchild and so on; traits encoded in the genes that make up the person you are. Therefore, every person on the face of this earth has, if only a little, some of his or her ancestors within themselves all the time.
This does not mean that people carry memories from these ancestors, they're not supposed to anyway, just that they might inherit a certain personality trait from someone in their distant past. Or physical features, like eye or hair color.
They do not inherit the soul.
At least, that is what we are taught in school. I make it a point to only believe what I know, and I know this; a soul can be inherited. It can be inherited just as a certain eye color can.
Souls should not be inherited.
I have always believed that if you work hard enough you can achieve your goal, no matter what it is. The same goes for the soul. A soul should not be inherited; it should not be given like a precious heirloom to a person. It should be earned. Needs to be earned. Otherwise how can one assess his or her own worth? How do we measure our life and achievements against the lifetime of another person? We can't.
And we shouldn't have to.
In a person who has inherited a soul, they carry around with them all the memories and emotions that the soul's previous owner had along with their own. The problem is that they never truly have their own. Any emotions or thoughts are always colored by this fact. Always. I know.
They are thin lines that divide the two.
I should know.
Where do the old souls end and the new ones begin? I have asked myself that so many times, it's almost funny.
It's hard at times to differentiate between Clow Reed and Hiragizawa Eriol. Having his memories crowding and influencing what I do and how I think. At times that line becomes so thin that I can barely see it any more. Thin lines between souls blurring and bleeding into each other. Am I he, or is he me? Or are we . . . we? Is it even a question?
By whatever God there is, I hope so.
I am ten. But I find myself looking at men and women and wondering. And remembering. Lips on flushed flesh; bodies mingling intertwined; pleasure and pain blending until you can't tell one from the other. I shouldn't know these things. I shouldn't long for these things. I'm only ten.
I am only ten.
There is a part of myself that is Eriol. That is the ten-year-old boy; who has a crush on girl who reminds him of cherry blossoms; who hates gym and mushrooms. And that ten-year-old boy is often times crushed.
I am lucky, I guess. I share the soul with Kinomoto Fujitaka, Sakura's father. This diminishes the dominance of Reed's soul by half. But, at times, even that half is too much. I am a child with the physical memories of an adult. I know of pain, and hardship, of cruelty both thoughtlessly done and purposeful, I know of joy and age and death. I know of lust and love and the difference between the two.
And I am only ten.
Ever since I was little I have been aware of this soul residing in me, and of the other with it's matching half. And ever since I was little I have struggled to separate my actions from his. But as I grew older, as I still do, I find it getting harder and harder to do so. At first the line was thick and easily distinguished. And now . . . the lines are thinning.
It scares me.
I don't want to be Clow Reed. Not really. I want to be able to experience my first kiss without the memory of another face, another mouth overlaying it. I want to have a first love, and a first mistake. I want to be able to have a first.
But I won't.
You can't get rid of a soul, no matter want they say. Because even if you sell it, burn it, scar it beyond point of recognition, it will still be there.
So I must learn to deal with it. Learn to live with having knowledge that is beyond my age and the knowledge that one day there will be no more lines to separate our souls.
That terrifies me.
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Disclaimer: Clamp owns CCS, and all characters therein.