Prologue
Come one, come all, and worship the dance of the soul.
Children of earth, of sky, of sea, worship the dance of the soul.
We are what we are, We be what we be;
All things which make us whole.
We say what we can, we die as we stand,
The dreams we have, we stole.
Fly now, Fly high, and worship the dance of the soul.
People of peace, light, of hope, worship the dance of the soul.
Though try as we may, we can't live a day,
Our souls grow ever colder.
Scream as you fall, just forget all
the things that make you feel older.
Live stronger, live harder, and worship the dance of the soul.
Lovers of smiles, of tears, of pain, worship the dance of the soul.
Laugh though you try, we all too will die,
What then will we leave behind?
Pieces of life, pieces of strife,
Scattered for them to find?
Die slower, die colder, and worship the dance of the soul.
Lovers of past, of present, of future, worship the dance of the soul.
Truth darkens at night, go turn out the light,
Not too much longer to go.
Let go of your pain, release the strain,
I'll not let you die until I know
That you have worshipped the dance of the soul
As I worship the dance of the soul.
And worship the dance of the soul.
Dance of the Soul
Sunrise.
It dawned clean and brisk over the Digital World, bathing everything in red-gold waves.
But this is only a copy of our world, also. Ishida Yamato thought sullenly. The only reason the sun rises and falls in this world is because someone programmed it to. He looked at his hands. Am I too only a figment of someone's imagination? Could I be someone's dream, someone's creation? He reached into the dirt, sifting it between his fingers. I can feel this earth, it makes my gloes dirty, yet it is only a collection of computer data made incarnate. Does that make it real? I am a digidestined, one who was sent to protect this world, this world of imagined things, of created things, of unrealites. Does that make me real? Or is this simply an unreal part of myself, like a dream from which I cannot wake?
He winced. Is simply living enough to make me real? I think. I try. I fail. Do my mistakes make me human, or imperfect? Dropping the handful of soil, he pulled his knees into his chest. Who defines what is me? My mind, or the minds of those around me? Am I the Yamato my brother sees, the Yamato Taichi sees, or the Yamato my father sees? Am I the Yamato my mind knows, or simply a tiny piece of that mind, incarnated here in this world of false images and untrue realities? He put his face on his knees. All that is real here isn't, yet is. If I were to die here, would I cease to live in life? Or would only my mind die, and my body be forced to survive as a vegetable hooked to some machine? Or would I simply not die at all, become immortal in this world of endless seasons and computer programs. Machines cannot die. This world is trapped within one; do any of those native to it truly die?
Or does it even matter? Does death, in all its definitions I know and comprehend, even exist, or is it too just an imagined thing, a created thing, made to end our imagined lives?
" 'Niichan!" A little boy, bursting from the seams from life and energy, bounded over, stalling the endless circle of answerless wonder. Yamato blinked, trying to focus his unfocused thoughts. "Tai says it's time to go!"
Yamato nodded and stood. Be I imagined or not, I bleed and hurt, just like any other human. I love just like any one else. He through one last longing look at the dawn. So rise, imagined sun. You still give us light and warmth, be you real or not. So I too will be Yamato. Simply Yamato.
Then he took his brother by the hand, and turned away, back towards the others. Into his destiny.
Whether it existed or not.
Email: taito4ever@hotmail.com