I’ve read quite a bit of Mishima in my time. His autobiographical Sun and Steel being my most frequented. Since the many re-readings of the man’s personal testament, I’ve found myself transfixed by the idea of his frustration with language itself. For some time, after coming into contact with this rose, I’ve walked around with a tiny thorn in the back of my head. Tickling, prodding, disturbing me, but somehow it eludes my hands when I go to pluck it’s prickle. When I turn on my back to sleep it is jabbed through my pillow and I can’t rest. Like many truths, tiny thorns have quite an ability to cause personal disturbance.
This happened to my buddy Eric