Music in media: fighting pose by DAOKO

Motivation, as with all things fickle, is demonic by nature. Once you get high on motivation, you can ride a bike into the sky, through the nimbus clouds. The moment motivation ditches you for a better someone, it's an immediate strike three. You're out and rotting on the bench, trying to be happy for those who run about on the field, leaving and coming home, scoring their goals, all while struggling to cap your envy. Other times, you just can't be bothered and start to wallow in self-pity.

All's not yet lost. Motivation has a bestie named caffeine. Caffeine is the mom friend who'll direct motivation to the right path. Where there's caffeine, there's motivation, and there's productivity, and there's the daily grind. No breakups. Just pure, golden jubilance.

But here's where the problem lies. Caffeine is the parent of grogginess, which lives in the brain and causes us to be unable to concentrate on their tasks. Our brain is an incubator for our grogginess and when it cries, caffeine will answer, and motivation will arrive. And if you have any memory of what a nuisance you were when you were younger, you'd know what it feels like. Even if you don't recall anything from your infant days, that's alright. The grogginess in your brain recreates that experience for you.

Actually, the biggest problem is that I've run out of coffee. No, wait, it's that I've been trying to get by without caffeine, but life... everything is stagnant without that adrenaline rush.

It's been two days since Meta joined the family. Two days of peace and quiet. Two days worth of The Paper Magician marathon, bingeing the whole of seasons 1 and 2. Two days of leaving the house to deliver bento and fetch Rae from Pokémon School. Two days of not crossing paths with any of the bois, even Kaspar.

Today, I'm out of my chrysalis. And what happens? Life happens. You know, I only drink one cup of coffee every day, but my supply's been vanishing. Worse still, because of my habit of hugging a plush to sleep, I'd always awake to Meta in my loving embrace, despite the pink tatami mattress I've gotten for him a day ago, laid out just beside my bed. Why pink? Because he'll camouflage with it like a Kecleon and I won't be able to see him and I can sleep as I always do before his existence was uncovered.

I don't want to wake up to saliva on my face (that happened with the Gengar) or have my sleep interrupted and waking up every thirty minutes thanks to Noctowl's pecks or be punched in the gut every time I close my eyes (thanks a lot, Poliwrath). As a result, it's no surprise who's got a terrible aura about him. And right now, the only saviour is coffee, who's nowhere to be found.

Meta traipses into the kitchen when I slam the cabinet.

"Ohayo," I mumble at the energetic Pokémon. Over the two days, I've come to learn that Meta also lives with bursts of energy. By that, I mean explosions that last the whole day every day.

"What you searching?" Meta asks.

"Coffee."

Meta repeats the word with amusement and adds, "There's no more coffee?"

"No more." I show him the barren cabinet. "Abra Kadraba Alakazam."

"Awww snap!" Meta moans. "I need my quickie."

My eyes sharpen into slits. "Quickie."

"Caffeine fix. I drink coffee every morning."

I slam the cabinet. "Is that so?"

"Yeah, like, 3am?" Meta strokes the bump above his face. "So we're out of coffee?"

I nod. "How much do you even consume in one sitting?"

"Close to half a container." He points to the overturned plastic container on the rack. "I washed it after use so it's squeaky clean."

You're kidding me. This is a smol Ditto here. Why would he need half a container worth of coffee powder just for a quickie? And at 3am? Who even drinks coffee at 3am?

I suddenly have the urge to write my own lyrics and produce some death metal.

"Squeaky clean? I'll make you squeak, ya hear?"

So begins the hunt for coffee powder. After breakfast, which is plain bread. Which is torture to a Ditto who needs lots of flavour in his life. I swear I can be the world's best candidate for the Spritomb auditions, whenever the Pokémon feels a successor is required. The only prerequisite is death, and in a city where the Gym's a Ghost-type and the Gym Leader's your close friend, death is an easy task.

I grab my wallet and leave home with Meta balancing on my right shoulder, wearing his shades. It's just a trip to the marketplace, but he insists on being swag. He's probably bothered by how no one actually knows who he is. Even in the drama series, he's sidelined!

The third episode aired yesterday and it just glossed over that eventful night, not forgetting Kaspar's misleading "good sleep". Guess what? I don't care, even if Meta wants to be on tv so he could tug at Otousan's sleeves when he visits him in Aoi Yoake and say "Lookie lookie, I is on tv!" They can edit us however they like. We'll just live the one life we have and pray to all the shrines across Johto before we die. Matsuba may deny that his clairvoyance can't predict our deadlines, though it's obvious he's just one shy boi. That's what I like about him anyway, all about humility and serenity.

"Say, isn't early morning Enju... pretty nice?

I throw Meta a wary look. "What's it with you?"

His gaze takes me on a tour around the city, choosing to string multiple calls to attention together instead of adopting a touch-and-go approach. First off, the pavement. Initially, what comes to light are just the brisk feet of the working crowd who live by the adage of "time is money". When my focus lingers on the rectangular tessellations, the rise and fall of various walks of life overlap chasing shadows drawn by the waking sun. The sheen of court shoes is a sharp contrast to the worn boots of an engineer. High heels pick fights with clogs out of boredom, clacking and clucking as if they're recording the latest ringtone. Believe me, the people here would pay to hear that when their alarm rings or when a loved one calls.

We pan up a little. Bricks glued together to support houses compete with timber buildings for attention. For every ten suits that flutter in the gentle zephyr, a student zooms ahead with a bread in their mouth and a bottle of Moomoo Milk in their hand. One of them trips and spills them on the floor. The world changes pace for a short while, interrupted by a five-minute long tap dance before a mop clears the path for more dashing students.

Please don't misunderstand me. I mean that they are running, not that they are easy on the eyes. Okay, that sounds like an insult. Some of them are dashing, in both sense of the word.

Further up, we note the fine line of the horizon marked by the vermilion canopy. Only two towers aim to climb the clouds and reach the big blue expanse above us. One is majestic, the other is disappointing. The Bell Tower appears as a pavillion built atop a fiery forest, unlike the Ivory Tower which sticks out from a series of shorter buildings that are somehow adorned with more windows than it knows.

"Of course, the Ivory Tower is the majestic one," Meta points out. This is definitely a biased opinion.

Objectively, the Bell Tower should never be seen as a disappointment because it's Ho-Oh's nest. The Ivory Tower is but a smokestack of ignorance.

"Subjective," Meta says.

"Whatever."

"I want Geidai too."

"What's that?" I spy with my little eye the rising rollers of the dorayaki stall. "Is that a male Geisha?"

"It's an art university."

"Ah, art." I blink. "You want to be a Smeargle for the day?"

"I can paint like this too!" Meta puffs up his chest.

Reality has it that a Ditto is born for breeding. Daycares across the globe can vouch for me. This is the first time a Ditto has other hobbies.

"Prostitution is not a hobby. It's a way of life."

"Says the Metamon Code." I sweatdrop. He did not just say prostitution. Pokémon breeding isn't pimping. That's a thoroughly vulgar comparison. I say no more on the subject. "What have you been reading anyway?"

"Nothing. I read that manga back in the Ivory Tower."

"So... fudanshi."

"I read original, not fanmade."

What a relief.

I turn on my heel and take a few steps so I reach the door.

"Why are we people-watching? Let's go home."

Meta holds onto my sneaker. He responds to my growl by letting go and uttering the magic word: coffee. I turn back. He latches onto my shoulder once again. We walk.

This morning proves to be a tedious one. With every step I take, someone would wave at me and greet me and I would reciprocate. Truth be told, I don't think I have even managed to cover ten metres. Faces swim by and voices slip an "Ohayo, Aomine-kun!" my way everywhere I look. My mouth sours and numbs, my tone flattening after each "Ohayo!" that leaves me. Is this what happens when you stay at home for the most of the time for just two consecutive days?

My presence has been made known to the world! I shall now shred my letter to Spritomb audition and join the queue to become part of the next boy group and debut! I will show the world that I'm more than just a pretty face!

A pair of red flippers and white socks present themselves to me, followed by a hearty giggle.

"Ohayo, Aomine-kun!" A saccharine voice speaks. "I've not seen you in a while!"

I blink at the powdered face hiding behind a sensu fan, her hair clipped with an orange barrette. She twirls and winks. She's donned in traditional Maiko attire, a light pink, long-sleeved kimono with a wide black obi, filled up by the golden etchings of a heart and red borders, tied into a bow at her back.

"Ah, ohayo, Satsuki-han."

She smiles, leans forward to observe Meta and tickles him. "You must be Meta. You're a born comedian!"

Meta gives her a blank look. "You know me."

"Everyone knows you. You're on tv, remember?" The Kimono Girl placed her sensu on her side. "So when's the filming of the next episode?"

Meta pinches my muscle and I answer for him, "We don't know. It's unscripted."

"Hohoho! Is it an improv kind of acting gig? Enoki-san must be free nowadays."

I brandish a smile. "Oh no, we just lead our own lives and a mystery stalker films us. Our privacy is infringed and our lives are made into a harem story."

Satsuki raises her sensu and flutters her eyelids. "You can't be serious now, Aomine-kun! You know that's not ethical! You must sue the company involved!"

I shrug and Meta, Ditto. Stealing a glance at him, I reveal the Ivory Tower's trophy collection which must include an electroplated one with a label slapped onto it to celebrate its world-renowned ethics-centric approach. Satsuki gasps and fans herself and wipes her brows and takes her gaze on a city tour and laughs and swats her hand and fixes her barrette throughout the conversation. Why, she's the most modest one of the Kimono Girls, and has a passion burning strong like her Flareon's favourite Flamethrower. The heat of the topic is nothing to her.

After a while more, we bid farewell and I promise to visit the dance hall soon. We leave ourselves wondering how the conversation will be edited for episode four as we part, Satsuki back to the dance hall and we to the marketplace.

Aromas meld together in a harmonious fashion and caress our beings even from a distance away. One doesn't need to enter the marketplace to know what's available—the scents and sounds tell everything. They are the key to turning words on an item list into dimension-breaking visuals, how even the sixth sense or seventh and more would be activated, that the moment one steps into the marketplace they know exactly where to get their items, the ideal quality and quantity guaranteed.

"Third stall down the street," Meta says, and we're outside the stall watching a balding man grind the fresh beans. Jars of ungrounded beans handpicked by the farmers in Yoshino City line across the wooden bench in front of the stall, coupled with placards of their corresponding names in calligraphy. Meta's eyes water from the variety displayed. A sticky substance streams down my shirt and dampens my skin.

"Heh heh." The seller beams at us and points his pestle to a mini shelf beside the bench. "We've got sugar cane, Durin Berry and Occa Berry there, if you wanna try."

"Tanaka-san, three jars of fine coffee powder will do."

"Heh, one more jar than usual?" He raises a brow, puts his pestle in the mortar, grabs three jars off the bench and stacks them in a paper bag. "That will be ¥1200."

I pay for the coffee and take the bag. "Sankyu, Tanaka-san."

"Ie ie!" His crooked teeth shines on the money for a split second before running into his lips in embarrassment. Then he's back to his pestle and mortar.

Meta doesn't tear his gaze away from him till I suggest getting anything he finds curious. My shirt gets wetter and I grunt, but all Meta wants is to visit every single stall to "satisfy his cravings", as if the marketplace only has edibles to offer.

Naturally, we make a 180 degrees turn to kick start our marketplace adventure. Guess he's always been wanting to know what the bitter and moist smell wafting about was. Seeing the coffee labels propped up must have gyrated his gears somehow as he cries "Ink! Ink!" as if he's never seen it before. Who am I kidding? The Ivory Tower isn't so cultured. Meta's probably only seen printer ink. Look at him being deep in thought as the calligrapher, Handa-san, dips his brush into a dark inkwell, moving on to press the soaked bristles onto a pristine canvas. Then it's art in action.

Spiky black hair bounces as he manoeuvres his brush with speed and grace, an unrestrained rage feeding the strokes as he grinds his teeth and shouts "Ha!" with each complete stroke, be they horizontal, vertical, diagonal, curved or zigzags diminishing into clear oblivion. Drops of sweat touches down on the ground, lending his diamond face an exquisite shine like lapping waves in summer growing and lifting a wakeboarder. People would stop and go every once in a while, but just last week, no one dares to move an inch, all eyes on him and his canvas. The only movement came from an affected sneeze or camera clicks. Those who recorded his performance were instantly cured of their trembling hands for the rest of their lives. Today, however, everyone pours a greater interest into the rare sight of a busy fellow and his Ditto. Handa-san must be jealous, for his strokes emerge as brutal cuts, his eyes glinting with a calm so discomforting, his grip on the brush relaxing and tightening from time to time. Can you imagine the fury of being in Enju once a week and having your attention embargoed because of a media sensation whom you can see every other day? It's the most probable and sensible reaction I've seen from this childish character who knows the maturity of a fruit more so than his own.

Alas, his work is complete. He leans back, wiping his face with his white kerchief. Passersby and gossipmongers pause to study his poem.

"Dampish eventide.
A faithful, blue Herdier feeds
Whilst watching Tepig."

The calligraphy starts off neat, then gets a little rattled in the second line. In the final line of the haiku, despite chaos winding up its tail, the Tepig lives and breathes serenity. My mind weaves the moment of the haiku, an ounce of stagnancy, a reproduction of longing, a branch of moonflowers hastening in the gloaming, the Herdier standing guard, keeping an eye on the Tepig. There's a story within, yet also no story at all. It speaks of an insult, yet also a cold compliment.

Meta taps my shoulder and slinks off. Before I can chase after him, cedar and rosewood engulfs the marketplace. Handa-san screams and backs away, drawing our attention to him. From his canvas, the strokes swim and break free of their structures, transfusing into a moonflower tree. Tender perennial vines adorned with large, heart-shaped leaves sway along white, drooping flowers as the sky darkens and blues, putting on a light blush. The sun seems to leap out for a second before diving into the altostratus clouds, a splash of new fragrance overwhelming our beings. Our gazes trail a moonflower as it leaves home, floating on a breeze, landing without a sound on the fluffy, blue fur of a Herdier in the process of materialisation. A disembodied hand places gingerly a plate of poffins (one of each flavour, the spicy red, the dry blue, the sweet pink, the bitter green, the sour yellow) with chrysanthemum garnish below its snout. Cold dews drip from the slightly tattered chrysanthemums, slide down the smooth surface of the poffins and hit the bottom of the shallow plate, making a resonant ding. The morose Herdier eyes the moonflowers above, the stray balancing upon its head, then looks at the crowd.

Squeals spill into the atmosphere as a Tepig trots towards the tree, the red ball on the tip of its tail slightly charred. It oinks and smiles at the Herdier, but the solemn guard does not smile back. Instead, it keeps a watchful eye on the Tepig as the sun's rays black out and the lanterns hung along the marketplace light up on their own accord, their candles replaced by little Litwick whose blue flames dot the humid eventide.

"This..." Handa-san's eyes bulge as he takes his brush and another piece of paper and gets to work. The paper seems to repel the brush, and any ink that drips wiggles their way to the inkwell. He can't write, in spite of his clear urge.

A child steps forward to cuddle the Tepig. Sparks ignite in her eyes when the Pokémon smacks its tail against her pigtails to show joy. A weight leaves my chest. When was the last time I've seen anyone in Enju City so liberated from their hectic schedules? When did we start to busy ourselves just so we can get by, sinking into routine, forgetting the simplicities of life as we knew them? The people and Pokémon around me seem to express the same thoughts through their gradual smiles.

The Tepig writhes out of the child's clinch and nuzzles at the tree. The Herdier barks, but soon rubs its snout against the Tepig's tepid body. The Tepig turns and their snouts meet. Tiny waves blur the air till the moonflower coasts down the Herdier's head and in between their snouts. Balancing the flower, they crab to the poffins and set it beside the chrysanthemums. They feast.

Once the poffins go poof, the chrysanthemums are healed. The moonflower grows a stalk to connect both flora. The Herdier watches the Tepig leave. We, too, with our misty eyes, can neither scoop or pet it. We watch the Tepig leave.

The scene fades with a wintry fog as the strokes reunite. Only the two flowers remain on Handa-san's canvas, the moonflower resting on the characters for Herdier, the chrysanthemum rolling across the characters for Tepig. With shaking hands and a tear-stained face, Handa-san picks up the gift and clutches it against his chest while applause makes it rounds in the audience. A thud by my feet and a squish on my shoulder indicates Meta's return.

"That was beautiful, Meta," I say. The onlookers start to bid for the haiku. I turn away with my face tilted down. There's no point in buying the haiku if it's only to recall an interpretation not one's own. I won't fall prey to the resonance of Meta's way of seeing.

Experiencing anything for the first time is always magical. Any more and the enchantment wanes exponentially. This is the law of diminishing marginal utility.

A hand on my other shoulder stops me in my tracks.

"Can I write you something?" Handa-san says as I turn halfway. The haiku finds it home in a woman with a sakura hairpin. It seems like he wants more of his works to be at home with someone who understands.

In my silence, Meta nods for us both. Handa-san, having drunk the Moomoo Milk of inspiration from Meta's work of art, begins to write. His strokes are finer now, less haphazard, more smoke-like. When the ink dries, he rolls it into a scroll and ties it with a golden ribbon. I take it with thanks.

"Shall we?" I motion to the Ditto. He taps his limbs together and motions to my feet. Bags containing three boxed takoyaki, five cup ramen, twenty inari sushi, a red hanko and ink, calligraphy brushes, palettes and five sets of paint tubes, a drawing block, a sketchbook, and two pairs of socks with a Dusknoir and a Pidgeot design respectively.

"I went shopping while in Transform!"

I bite my lower lip. "Fine, we can eat the inari sushi and takoyaki for lunch and leave the ramen for next time. I get the brushes and art stuff too, but what's with the socks?"

Meta frowns. "You no likey-likey?"

"It's just jarring."

"Some woman in an oni mask gave them. Says you will like them. But she left."

I tsk. "Where did she go?"

"There." Meta gestures northwest of us. The Smeargle dancing at the rooftop waves its tail at us. "Say hi!"

The scroll tucked between my armpit, I carry the bags, heading home. Say hi? I will do more than just that.

I unroll Handa-san's work and hang it opposite my bed. It's one thing to idolise a man, another to receive a gift as a fan. I will forever treasure this, even if I know exactly what the haiku is referencing.

"Feather drifts at night.
One last step of love long lost.
Leaves drift softly still."

Feather for Hayato, leaves for Matsuba, thanks to his last name Enoki, a ghastly tree. Funny how no one ever knows what to do about Kaspar.

I touch the paper to flatten it out, and a tiny triangle juts out from behind.

"A second one?" I bring the one on top down and stare at the hidden calligraphy.

Meta pins the first one beside it, then comes to my side. We bathe in the haiku.

"Blue winds flow with life.
In emptiness, a smile waits.
You are your own art."