𝗠𝗔𝗚𝗜𝗖𝗜𝗔𝗡'𝗦 𝗣𝗟𝗔𝗬! ━━━━ mao isara (on hold)

28. burnt out (mao)

ᡣ𐭩 . no au | angst

Warmth radiated within the Trickstudio, even with a few fans whirring and buzzing the surrounding area of where Mao sat on the settee. Even with the pick of a breeze fluttering through the largely opened windows.

Besides the warmth that battled against the begging need of coldness, there was only one noise to be heard within Trickstudio. Pen against paper, a noise that has been occupied within the vicinity for quite some while. More than just a few hours - more than half the day.

Papers upon Papers. Journals and sketch pads surrounding Mao at every inch he could see and move within. No pile was too low of such objects, all mismatching of themes and genres of the things they were about.

Mao glances down at a half full journal that sat in his lap. His writing was incredibly messier than his usual style already was, leaving smudges of ink and scribbling out notes on every other line he wrote down just to rewrite the said words better than before.

His eyes cast over the words he let form from his mind. Actually, the words didn't even come from his mind. Mao wasn't thinking at all when deciding to write down what he did the past hour and a half within the journal he held. Instead, the pen was the one with the mind, whilst Mao was just there for the stability, to help guide the pens way through the blindness of the white sheets of paper that were begging to be noticed and coloured in with black ink.

A frown then paints its way onto his facial features, kelly green eyes peeking away from the lonely journal in his lap and to the infinite piles surrounding him.

What even was he doing all this for, again?

The pen dropped with a high fall from his hold and rolled away from Mao on the settee, rolling until it settled itself stuck between the settee cushion and the arm of the mentioned furniture piece.

With all the writing and drawing he did, for the whole day, did it all even matter? They were all ideas ready for Mao to present to the rest of Trickstar. But what was the point of consistently coming up with various ideas if the rest of Trickstar wasn't going to see them? Especially any time soon.

Makoto, Hokuto, and Subaru...

Since leaving Yumenosaki not all that long ago, Trickstar has been stuck in a constant loop of business. Photoshoots, overseas events, invitations to parties as an honoured special guest, the list, Mao realises, goes on for far more than an infinite amount.

Yet, there was one thing that Mao realised since Trickstar has all been busy.

He was never invited to anything. Nobody around ever asked if he wanted to style in a crazy photoshoot for a theme going on for events or magazines. He hasn't seen his name in an email of being invited to other countries to win awards for global best songs, and so on.

So, what was the point? What was the point of literally doing any of the stuff he was doing right there?

It seems that no matter how further in life he goes, everyone else will still be ahead of him. All of their dreams were coming true with every breath he took right then. People he knew were celebrating for every reason imaginable and having fun whilst he slaved himself away with work that held no meaning to it.

An exhausted sigh leaves between the thin gap of his lips, head and back leaning into the settee cushions behind himself as his eyes focus on the wooden beams supporting Trickstudio up within the building. His focus becomes blurred not too long afterwards.

He was tired.

Mao Isara was tired. Of life. Of his thoughts. Of reality. Of never being able to win at this game. Forever was he stuck as the puppet on strings to the world's negativity. He wanted to tear the strings apart from behind his back, scream for something, anything, other than the usual repeats to happen.

He closes his eyes in an instant once he feels tears blurring his vision with the sensation of stinging.

Mao ached more than anything. His mind, his body. His energy had depleted. His energy was useless.

...Maybe - he thinks to himself - maybe he should quit. Maybe if Mao quits, then he wouldn't be feeling how he is now. Feeling drained and left out all the time.

Another exhale released from Mao.

It wasn't such a bad idea, right?