Thread with 9 posts
jump to expanded post
In the first two chapters of SubaHibi, there is a recurring motif of asking why God didn't make the sky be a different colour every day. We understand it, but it doesn't land with us in the particular way the game might want it to, because the colour is different every day.
Before you say it, we know, we need to finish reading the other half of the game. But:
Where we happen to live, the sky seems to take on an unfathomable number of different configurations all the time. As if a different painter were handed the brush of heaven (or some other such flowery formulation, we don't believe in it) every day. It's always quite affecting.
No two skies are ever the same, and it's the most grounding thing in the world.
Eventually we'll just have terabytes of photos of the sky, the vast majority of which nobody will ever see more than once, the vast majority of which will never leave the microSD card, the vast majority of which will succumb to bitrot someday sooner rather than later.
Much like the sky itself, and life itself, it will all wash away, and it won't have meant particularly much.
Sometimes, I look at the sky, and I think these sorts of things.
This is the kind of thing you'd expect us to write when we're doing very badly, but in this case we're just having a nice time. We spent ~3 days of this week doing nothing but writing about piano tones on MIDI modules, after a friend asked us if we recognised the SubaHibi piano.
And as nice as that was, and we're excited to finally publish that post soon, going outside again and just, cooling down and looking at the sky is of course very wonderful. Our brain can't handle all that writing and autism. And so, well, I'm having a gentle evening right now.
SubaHibi oneshot us, even though we've only played half— wait, every series that has ever oneshot us has done that, right? We still have half of Monogatari to watch, too.
Well, as I was saying, it oneshot us because we are Normal About The Sky, and so is that game.