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rnsk-kousatsu · 2 months ago

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Song Analysis of モラトリアム (Moratorium) in the Context of Tomoe’s Character Arc in Growing

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Sung by: Miyazono Tomoe (CV. Hirose Yuuya) Lyrics written by: Azuma Ryou Composed/arranged by: Ono Takamitsu

I know モラトリアム (which I’ll write as Moratorium from now on) is a relatively old song, especially since it was released 2 years ago as part of the Growing series (specifically Creation3, which you can listen to here), and on top of that, TCS has also released several new song series in the past 2 years alone. However, I recently got to watch the live performance of the song (I hesitated linking it here at first due to the implications *coughs*piracy*coughs*, but I feel like more people should experience it, so watch it here), and it moved me a lot to the point that it compelled me to listen closely to the song and check the audio drama again.

For the record, Tomoe has always been my favorite character in TCS — not just because he’s voiced by my favorite seiyuu (though it certainly does factor into it), but also because his character arc — especially in Growing — deals with themes that have always resonated with me deeply: passion versus external expectations. Tomoe, coming from a high-standing family, felt like the expectations pushed onto him were always unfair — not only because he couldn’t quite live up to them due to his lack of ability to do so (the constant comparison to his “perfect” older brother, Kanae, didn’t help either), he also felt his family suppressed his own personal dreams of pursuing singing and music, which his parents had constantly derided as “useless”. He mistakenly believed that by taking revenge on his family and removing them from the picture, he’d finally be able to pursue his dream in peace. It took him the whole audio drama (and with the help of Mirai, his buddy in Growing) to realize that eradicating the people he viewed as “obstacles” wasn’t the right way to go about it — what he needed first was the courage to face his dream with pure, genuine feelings that aren’t clouded with malicious thoughts.

Moratorium, written with the theme of “dream” in mind, perfectly captures Tomoe’s journey and relationship with his dream in Growing. And it isn’t just an objectively accurate depiction of Tomoe’s arc with a great storytelling to boot — the song also manages to be ripe with imageries in its lyrics, where every line in the song carries its own significance. Even compared to other TCS songs, Moratorium still feels particularly tightly written in which not even a single line is wasted or feels redundant. It’s why I think the song merits a deep analysis on its lyrics.

My main tool to do this analysis is semiotic analysis, wherein I break down the lyrics line-by-line to analyze its denotation (explicit meaning) versus connotation/myth (imagery), and how it intertextually connects with Tomoe’s arc in the actual audio drama. I’ll just provide a summarized interpretation in this post, but you can find the notes that I took in this accompanying sheet (it’s somewhat cluttered, though). For the lyrics translation, it was something I did myself, and you can find just the translation here. With that being said, let’s get straight into the analysis itself.

爽頼が僕の耳かすめたまっくら天井に描いた ��寂の夢幽玄みたいなあのときの1秒今でも数えてみたくなるこんなモラトリアム逃げられやしないこのドアを開けて The sound of autumn breeze Brushed past my ear In the pitch-black ceiling, I drew A silent dream That one second, like a profound mystery I still want to count it even now Such a moratorium There’s no way for me to escape it Open this door

The song starts with a chorus, and it opens with an imagery involving autumn breeze. Autumn, as a season, has been commonly associated with change, transition, or impermanence. In Japan specifically, autumn often symbolizes a time of reset — a release of the old. This doesn’t necessarily mean the association with impermanence is rendered null in the context of the song, though. For starters, “breeze” has the connotation of being momentary, which could lend itself to the whole impermanence theme. Also, the word 爽頼 (sourai) in the first line means “the faint sound of autumn breeze”, which emphasizes the fleeting feeling of the word “breeze” itself even more. So, autumn breeze sort of evokes the idea of a transient moment of clarity about the change that’s about to come to Tomoe’s life. However, just as the breeze only “brushed past his ear” without lingering for too long, the thought of change only briefly occurred to Tomoe, perhaps because he was too pre-occupied with another thought that he could never escape the life he was leading at that time.

The setting then abruptly changes into a dimly lit room, with a “pitch-black ceiling” where Tomoe drew his “silent dream”. A ceiling might often be used to symbolize limits or oppression, especially when described as pitch-black, given how darkness can add to the oppressiveness of an already cramped space. However, I think in this context specifically, it can represent a moment of solemn solitude for Tomoe . Think of moments when you lock yourself in your own room to be alone just by yourself, lying on the bed and staring at the dark ceiling. While the darkness may feel isolating, it ironically provided a rare moment of privacy for Tomoe where he was finally alone without external voices (especially of his family) bothering him. Left alone with his thoughts, he could finally allow himself to introspectively reflect on his life, and what he actually wanted to do with his life. Now, we know from the audio drama that Tomoe probably first discovered his passion for singing when his dad — in a rare moment where he didn’t deride Tomoe — praised Tomoe’s singing. However, Tomoe might only have developed a concrete vision of it being something he wanted to seriously pursue later.

On the topic of the phrase “I drew”, “drawing” as a word itself is commonly used in Japanese in the context of “drawing a dream”, which means conjuring up a dream. However, I want to further emphasize how the use of “drawing” here implies an act of deliberate creation. Instead of just passively daydreaming, Tomoe is actively crafting his vision of his dream. On top of that, “drawing” also gives the dream a sense of vividness and tangibility, wherein it can be visualized and brought into reality, much like a literal drawing can be made visible on a canvas. “Drawing a dream” in the context of this song makes it feel like Tomoe was seriously manifesting his dream despite the obstacles that he was facing at that time.

Tomoe’s dream is characterized as being “silent” in this particular part of the song. Silence usually represents isolation, suppression, or resignation. It can also represent a secret. If we contextualize it within Tomoe’s story, a “silent dream” can represent a dream that Tomoe doesn’t tell anyone, likely out of his fear of facing disapproval. This dream being silent can also be a direct result of the pressure from his family, where their “loud” expectations drown out Tomoe’s dream to the point of it becoming very quiet.

The song describes the moment where Tomoe (presumably) first drew his dream as “that one second” that felt like a “profound mystery”. The Japanese word for this is 幽玄 (yuugen), which doesn’t have an all-encompassing translation in English, but is essentially a key concept in Japanese aesthetics that refers to the deep, often inexpressible beauty of things that are just out of reach of ordinary perception. Yuugen isn’t just mystery for the sake of being unclear, but it’s a sense of an incomprehensible depth that hints at more than what is immediately visible or understandable. Based on this knowledge, we know now that Tomoe considers “that one second” he recalls from the past to be profound, yet unreachable. It’s a pivotal moment where he felt a fleeting connection to something grand, but what’s left now for him to feel is the mystery of its loss.

In the next line, Tomoe expresses how he wants to experience the moment once again, by wording it as “still wanting to count it even now”. Interestingly, “recounting” in English describes the action of giving an account about an event or an experience. Even though this doesn’t apply to the original Japanese wording, you can say “recounting” a time in the past, it enables one to also “relive” the experience. Tomoe wants to “count that one second” again, so he essentially wants to experience the short moment where he first discovered his passion and felt the mysterious wonder of it (that probably has faded by now, which is why he feels a longing for it).

The lines “Such a moratorium / There’s no way for me to escape it” show how Tomoe feels cornered and helpless. This is where we first witness a direct reference to the song title, Moratorium. A “moratorium” itself means a period of suspended action or delay, and here it likely symbolizes the fear that freezes Tomoe for almost the entirety of his arc in Growing. His fear creates a liminal state where Tomoe is unable to move forward with his life or dreams, because — as Mirai puts it — Tomoe just can’t find it in himself to dare to dream. And Tomoe believes he’s forever trapped in it — which reflects how helpless he feels in his situation. He has no real options except to accept the reality presented to him.

However, the final of the chorus, “Open this door”, introduces a flicker of hope. Doors often symbolize an opportunity, a possible escape to freedom, or a decision. Whatever it is, it can lead to a passage to something new. Opening it might represent the desire to escape the moratorium — Tomoe’s fear — and embrace the singer’s own destiny, stepping into his true calling of music. With this door, Tomoe still has a way out — into a future where he might realize his dreams of music, even if that future feels uncertain.

ホンモノなんてどこにあんだろうなそんな綺麗事バカ見るだけかな支配する側される側の情緒のないルールがまた回ってく Where could the real thing Be found, I wonder? Such lip service — are you just making a fool out of me? The unfeeling rules of the rulers and the ruled Keep spinning around once again

This verse, delivered in rap, has a distinct shift in the overall tone. Moving from the somewhat ethereal imagery of the chorus where Tomoe focuses mostly on his desire and internal struggle, we get something that feels more grounded, raw, and critical of the world around him. He starts by questioning the authenticity of his life, wondering where he’s lost it in a vast world full of flattery (lip service) that feels hollow and false. The word ホンモノ (honmono), meaning “real thing”, is curiously written in katakana, when normally it’s written in kanji as 本物. The use of katakana here can add a sense of emotional detachment or alienation, which fits the overall message of this verse, as Tomoe can no longer recognize “the real thing” anymore.

Aside from that, the line “Such lip service — are you just making a fool out of me?” also aligns with how Tomoe views “being nice” (which he deems as “lip service”) in the story — instead of seeing it as a means of keeping peace and harmony (which is the way Mirai views it), Tomoe sees it as a way for someone to butter up to other people in order to survive a cruel society. It’s the reason why he despises false niceties, vehemently rejecting it throughout the story in favor of what he considers “raw truths”.

The next two lines, “The unfeeling rules of the rulers and the ruled / Keep spinning around once again”, give a peek into the general worldview that Tomoe holds. From the audio drama, we learn that Tomoe has adopted a somewhat fatalistic outlook on life, likely due to being born into a high-standing family in Japan where self-expression is rarely celebrated. Your life is predetermined the moment you were born, is what he believed. You’re also meant to follow rigid norms and impersonal expectations forced upon by society — which are devoid of empathy and are fully functional — for the rest of your life. He thinks there’s no way to change one’s own life, because the same cycle had been going on forever, unchanging. It’ll take a while until he learns that his belief isn’t entirely true, but essentially, this is Tomoe’s belief for the most part of his story in Growing.

本性さえそうどこかへ言葉なんてさぁ口から出ない消えて生まれ消えてそれが法則なんだ Even my true nature, yes — it disappears somewhere Words, you see — they don’t come out of my mouth They vanish, are born, and vanish again That’s just the way it goes

Still delivered in rap, the next verse goes deeper into Tomoe’s outlook on his life and also his feelings of loss and disconnection that were caused by it. The first line in this verse suggests how Tomoe has even lost touch with his authentic self due to the overwhelming expectations placed on him by his family and society at large. It reinforces the themes of feeling trapped or suppressed present in both the song and Tomoe’s arc, as his true nature is now absent from being constantly pushed away. Tomoe no longer knows who he really is, especially in the face of the pressures that prevent him from pursuing his dream to become a singer.

Tomoe’s inability to express himself (“Words, you see — they don’t come out of my mouth”) shows how stifled he feels under his family. He’s silenced, unable to articulate his true desires or emotions. Then, the constant push and pull, as seen in the next line (“They vanish, are born, and vanish again”), shows how his words — and by extension his feelings, desires, and even his identity — seem to constantly emerge and submerge again. As much as Tomoe doesn’t want to admit it, he does struggle with feelings of hesitation and self-doubt, which contribute even more to his fear of even just trying.

The concluding line of this rap verse (“That’s just the way it goes”) expresses a sign of resignation. The literal meaning for 法則 (housoku) is “the law (of nature)”, which gives a sense of inevitability and adds even more to Tomoe’s already fatalistic view of life. Tomoe believes it’s something beyond his control, so he can never change it. And he isn’t entirely wrong to think like that, at least initially — in the Japanese society, the concept of 本音 (honne) and 建前 (tatemae) plays a significant role in shaping how individuals navigate their personal desires and social expectations. Honne refers to a person’s true feelings, which are often kept hidden in favor of the often conflicting tatemae, the facade or public behavior that aligns more with social norms and expectations. In Tomoe’s case, he just feels he has no other choice but to accept his role and sacrifice his true desires.

はじまりからハンデの人生どうしてなんて届きやしないいち、にの、さんで? ああ飛べない From the beginning, it’s a life full of handicaps My “whys” will never reach anyone On the count of one, two, three? Oh I can’t fly

We’re now entering the first pre-chorus, which starts with a line that gives us an insight on how Tomoe sees his life as being full of “handicaps”. From an outsider’s perspective who doesn’t know him, it might be curious how Tomoe, being born into a prestigious family, could even view his life as disadvantageous. But Tomoe himself expresses this a lot in the audio drama — he feels like he’s always been placed under unfair expectations from the beginning, since he believes he doesn’t have what it takes to fulfill the expectations burdened on him. His belief is further confirmed by how his family (especially his father) treats him — his father isn’t above calling him a “defect” in the story, and he’s constantly compared to his older twin brother as well. I know we later learned that his father has his own reason for being harsh on him in a future drama CD, but that’s a different topic altogether, so I digress.

Tomoe then expresses how his questions or pleas for understanding are not heard by everyone around him. The “whys” likely refer to his frustrations about his life or the unfairness he perceives in his situation, which adds an element of loneliness and isolation to the song. It’s as if his deepest concerns are either ignored or dismissed, leaving him with the sense that they don’t matter to anyone. His questions, no matter how important to him, just seem to fall on deaf ears.

Despite everything, there are moments where Tomoe attempts to build up the courage or motivation to try following what his heart says — only to be met with the crushing reality that he’s still unable to do so. We see this play out in the last two lines of this pre-chorus — he begins counting to three, as if he’s gearing up for something bigger. Counting like this is often the precursor to action, and in this case it’s a signal for takeoff. But here, just as he reaches the end of the count, his doubts creep back in, so instead of launching, his fear and hesitation win out, leaving him stuck in place once again. The final line (“I can’t fly”) reinforces this even more — it hits hard as a metaphor for Tomoe’s struggle to break free and follow his dream. Flight, in most stories, symbolizes freedom, ambition, or success. By saying that he can’t fly, Tomoe is admitting that he’s stuck. He feels weighed down by the fear that holds him back, stemming from the heavy burden of family and society’s expectations. No matter how badly he wants to soar with his passion for music, he’s grounded, with no way to take off.

星彩が僕の目に映ったまっくら夜空に描くは願いの詩白昼みたいなあのときの1秒を今こそ求めてみたいからここはモラトリアム箱庭のなかこのドアは開くの? Asterism Reflected in my eyes In the pitch-black night sky, I draw A song of wishes That one second, like broad daylight I want to try seeking it now more than ever This place is a moratorium Inside a miniature garden Will this door open?

As the song moves back into the chorus, it shifts to a lighter tone again. This time, it starts with the image of an “asterism reflected in [Tomoe’s] eyes”. Stars are often seen as symbols of dreams or aspirations, and asterism in particular evokes the image of a map or guide. Across many cultures, stars also represent a sense of direction — something to follow, like a true calling.

For Tomoe, the stars finally becoming visible hints at him recognizing a distant goal or perhaps seeing his dreams clearly for the first time. The reflection in his eyes symbolizes a moment of realization about his path. However, this vision takes place against a backdrop of a pitch-black sky, which represents the uncertainty or hopelessness that surrounds him. Even in the darkness, the stars offer a glimmer of hope, guiding him toward a possible way forward. Connecting this back to the story, you can say that this is probably the moment where Tomoe first discovered about Tokyo Color Sonic, sparking the hope that maybe chasing his dream wasn’t as impossible as he once thought.

The “moratorium” is mentioned once again, and it still represents the same thing — Tomoe’s fear that keeps holding him back. And the same as before, Tomoe is currently still in a state of suspension, unsure when or how he’ll be able to move forward. This is stressed even more by the image of the “miniature garden”, which evokes a sense of confinement within an artificial, controlled environment, possibly reflecting the restrictions or the narrow life laid out for him by his family. And he’s still unable to break free from the artificial limitations imposed on him by his family or society.

In the same “pitch-black sky”, Tomoe draws his “song of wishes.” There’s a deeper layer to the word “song” here — it’s written as 詩, which can be read as shi or uta (when used as an alternative spelling for 歌). While the word technically means “poem”, the way it’s sung is homophonous with 歌 (uta), which means it can also be understood as “song”. This particular nuance shows how, deep down, Tomoe still treasures singing. For him, singing isn’t just about vocalizing a bunch of words that mean nothing — it’s an intimate, personal form of self-expression that carries the weight of all his wishes and desires. Much like wishing upon a star, singing for Tomoe is an expression of hope and longing in the midst of uncertainty. Also, the contrast between the “pitch-black night sky” and a memory as clear as “broad daylight” reflects his inner conflict — there was a time when everything seemed clear to him, but now he’s trapped in darkness (which can either symbolize his doubt or despair), he wants to seek for that clarity again, more than ever.

The final question, “Will this door open?”, pushes the tension to its peak. Like stated before, the door can symbolize a possible escape, but Tomoe is still uncertain whether it will open. It’s the struggle between breaking free from the confines of his current life to pursue his dream or staying trapped in this limbo, caught between what he wants and what’s holding him back.

タイセツなんてどこかに捨てた欲しいのは触れられるモンだけでこの世界なんてプラマイだろう足して引かれ引かれどうせ沈んでく I’ve thrown away “precious” somewhere All I want are things I can touch This world, after all, comprises of plus and minus Adding and subtracting, subtracting I’ll keep sinking either way

It’s another verse in rap, and now it opens with a declaration that Tomoe has discarded something “precious”. Similar to how “real thing” is stylized in katakana in the previous part, “precious” here is also written in katakana — taisetsu is usually written as 大切 instead of タイセツ. The nuance is of course the same as before — it adds a hint of detachment and irony to the word “precious”. By using katakana, the song signals that what was once precious to Tomoe (his dream) now no longer feels familiar, because he’s thrown it away long ago.

The line “All I want are things I can touch” takes on a somewhat resigned tone. Tomoe, having given up on his dream, may now be expressing a deep sense of defeat or disillusionment with the intangible (his lost passion, the abstract ideals he once held). Instead of chasing after the ideal, Tomoe is now only interested in things he can physically experience or control, because his dream (music) feels alien and unattainable. He might now be saying, “If I can’t have my dream (which now feels foreign to me), then I’ll settle for the things that are real and touchable.” It’s a compromise — an acceptance that intangible things like dreams or emotional fulfillment have slipped away from him, and all that’s left are physical experiences.

The reference to life being a series of plus and minus operations reflects a cold, mathematical view of existence that Tomoe has also adopted. Life is reduced to a series of transactions, with gains and losses being the only measures of value. This reductionist worldview aligns with Tomoe’s disillusionment with life’s complexity, and it’s even explicitly expressed in the story — at one point in the audio drama, he pragmatically points out how, at the end of the day, singing and making music are just another means to make money. Emotions and ideals no longer matter to Tomoe, and everything can be boiled down to profit and loss.

The repetitive phrase “adding and subtracting, subtracting” emphasizes that for Tomoe, life is constantly taking more than it gives. No matter how much he tries to gain (whether through emotional or material efforts), he is always losing more in return, which has rendered him feeling hopeless. And the final image of “sinking” cements this hopelessness even more — Tomoe already feels resigned to his fate. There is no sense of hope or rescue in this image — just an inevitable descent into despair, as if he can no longer fight against the weight of his circumstances.

同情すらないこの街胸の奥の灯り道標だったならばもうゴールはない? In this city, where there’s not even compassion If the light deep within my heart Was my only guide, then Is there no goal anymore?

This section, still mostly in rap, expresses how Tomoe feels isolated in a world that has become completely unsympathetic to his struggle. The city represents not just his physical surroundings, but also society at large — a place where there is no compassion, where Tomoe is left alone to fend for himself. The absence of sympathy in the city reflects the coldness of the world around him, a place that offers no emotional support or understanding of his plight.

The “light deep within [Tomoe’s] heart” refers to his inner drive, possibly his remaining hope or his passion for music. It’s been the thing pushing him forward, even with all the obstacles he’s faced. But now, Tomoe is starting to question if that light is enough. From the way it’s worded, the line suggests that what used to be his guiding force is no longer something he can fully trust — he’s unsure if it can take him anywhere anymore.

The question, “Is there no goal anymore?” reveals Tomoe’s deepening existential doubt. He’s beginning to question whether there’s any purpose left for him at all. If his dream — the light that once guided him — no longer feels valid or attainable, what’s the point of pushing forward? It hints at his emotional and existential crisis, in which everything he’s worked for suddenly seems pointless.

教えてくれなくていいよ世界の薄情さは全部わかってるけれど It’s alright, you don’t need to tell me The coldness of this world, I already understand all of it Even so —

The pre-chorus sets up the emotional context for Tomoe’s resignation to life. Here, he wearily expresses that he already understands the coldness of the world around him and doesn’t need anyone to tell him about it, hinting at a sort of emotional fatigue. However, the addition of the last line (“Even so — ”) introduces a contradiction or hesitation, implying that even though he knows the world is cruel, something inside him hasn’t completely given up — there’s still a lingering hope or regret, or perhaps even those two feelings at once.

帰りたい帰れない意気地なし何度たとえばたとえば口ずさんであの年あの日のあの時間戻りたい戻れない繰り返しずっと地べた這っている寄生虫のように住みついてほんとの僕心さえもいつか齧られて消えていく? I want to go back, but I can’t go back — such a coward No matter how many times I hum, “what if”, “what if” In that year, on that day, at that time I want to return, but I can’t return — over and over again Crawling on the ground forever Like a parasite, I settle in Even my true self — my heart Will it be gnawed away and disappear someday?

Before I talk about the lyrics themselves, I have to point out how brilliant it is that the bridge is delivered as a rap. This choice makes Tomoe sound like he’s frantically rushing through his thoughts, almost tripping over his words. The rapid, almost desperate delivery gives the impression that he’s struggling to process everything at once. It’s not just a stylistic choice — it amplifies the emotion behind every single word conveyed in this bridge, pulling you into his turmoil even deeper.

With that being said, the lyrics themselves dive even more into Tomoe’s internal conflict, with hints of self-loathing. The part where he’s torn whether to go back or not can be taken either literally or figuratively. As we know, in the story, Tomoe feels like he can’t physically bring himself to come back to his home in Kyoto due to the estranged relationship he has with his family. But, going back home physically, even in the story, can also figuratively represent Tomoe confronting his past. It’s where he spent his childhood, after all. The thing is, he isn’t ready to do so yet, which is why he blames himself for being a coward.

Tomoe continues to hum about the hypotheticals — showing how he’s still stuck regretting the past, but the only thing he can do is just contemplate about it. Here, Tomoe once again expresses the repeated desire to return, this time more explicitly referring to a time in a past — since he wants to fix and reclaim something from his past. But of course, no matter how many times he wishes to turn back time, he’s unable to do so — obviously because it’s also physically impossible, even more impossible than just going back to his home.

As the rap slows down a bit, Tomoe’s self-loathing takes center stage. He begins by describing himself as crawling on the ground, which paints a vivid picture of humiliation and degradation. Tomoe is utterly defeated — he has lost his dignity, his sense of purpose shattered. And it’s more than just physical — it’s emotional, too. “Crawling” suggests he’s been completely broken, drained of the strength to stand up and fight for what’s been taken from him. This part of the rap perhaps references the moment Tomoe refers to himself as being “empty”, a point where he feels hollow after discovering Suruga’s betrayal. He finally realizes that no one is truly on his side. It’s as though he’s hit rock bottom, and the slow pace of the rap emphasizes the weight of his despair, which drags him even deeper into his own sense of worthlessness.

The parasite metaphor digs even deeper into Tomoe’s self-loathing. He sees himself as someone who takes away from the world, or from others, without giving anything meaningful in return. He believes that he’s a burden, someone who drains the life around him. On the other hand, the image of parasites also gives an underlying sense of Tomoe feeling out of place. You see, parasites don’t belong where they settle — they invade, thrive in a space that isn’t theirs. In the same way, Tomoe feels like he he’s living in a world that he has no rightful place in — an outsider who’ll constantly be alone, alienated by everyone else.

The final line in the bridge reveals how Tomoe dreads that his true self — his heart — will finally fade away if he continues living like this. “Gnawing away” imagery portrays a slow, painful erosion of his true identity, as if the world is gradually destroying him. It captures his emotional decay — his true self, his dreams, and his sense of purpose are slowly being destroyed, leaving him hollow. And he wonders if this is truly his fate — to be reduced into a mere empty shell, with no hopes or desires of his own.

There’s also an interesting contrast in the imagery of “being gnawed away” against the singer likening himself to a parasite. Parasites typically feed off others — they aren’t the ones being consumed. This duality reveals how Tomoe views himself in two conflicting ways. On one hand, he feels like a burden, taking from the world without contributing. On the other, he senses that something larger — maybe societal expectations, his own shortcomings, or time itself — is slowly eating away at his true self, leaving him feeling hollow. It’s a clash between the external image of survival versus the internal sensation of decay.

はじまりからハンデの人生ならばいっそ賭けようか僕と世界の勝敗を From the beginning, it’s a life full of handicaps Then why not bet on it all? On the outcome of me against the world

Mirai, however, helps Tomoe realize that it isn’t over for him yet, though. He manages to convince Tomoe that, at the very least, Tomoe still has him by his side. And Mirai makes it clear that he’s ready to save Tomoe over and over again, even if it means they’ll face the world against them.

This is why Tomoe’s resolve to fight back is rekindled, and the lyrics in the final pre-chorus represents this. Tomoe, once again, acknowledges that he was born into a life full of handicaps. But instead of letting his life control him like before, he now chooses to take charge — even if it means risking everything. After all, Tomoe has nothing to lose, having already lost everything before.

Furthermore, Tomoe frames his struggle as a fight — a showdown between him and the world. Either he comes out on top, or the world does. Unlike before, he’s now ready to challenge the world. His decision to take control of his life, as seen in the previous lines, is fueled by this newfound defiance. He’s no longer afraid and is ready to face the world head-on.

遠く高く汽笛が鳴ったのさこのドア開けたら見えるは夢路の先想像超えた新しいレール今なら辿れる気がしてるこんなモラトリアム抜け出してこうかちっぽけな猶予を飛び越え In the high and far distance, a steam whistle sounded When I open this door What lies before my eyes is the path of dreams ahead A new rail track that surpasses imagination I feel like I can follow it now Such a moratorium Shall I break out of it? This tiny delay Leap over it

The final chorus reflects Tomoe’s long-awaited moment of liberation. After struggling with feelings of entrapment and self-doubt, he now hears the call to action — represented by the distant whistle. In stories, the sound of the steam whistle of a train is often symbolic of new beginnings, since it signals a departure from the past and an invitation to take a new journey. Tomoe, by Mirai, is “invited” to start his life anew and leave behind his old life.

The door, which is one of the recurring symbols in the song, appears again in the final chorus. In this particular instance, it turns out to be the threshold between Tomoe’s current stagnant state and a potential new future. This connects to an earlier reference where Tomoe questioned whether the door could open. Here, he’s finally making the choice himself by finally opening the door.

Behind the door, he finds a rail track that surpasses imagination — a path that carries unexpected possibilities that he has never thought of before. However, with his newfound confidence, he now feels capable of following this new, uncharted path toward his goals. It’s a stark contrast against Tomoe’s initial feelings of doubt and hopelessness, because now, he feels empowered to take the next step.

The moratorium, once again, represents his fear that has frozen him the entire time. The thing that has trapped him in a state of limbo. However, here, he’s ready to escape it — suggested by how he finally contemplates whether to finally break free from his stagnancy. The phrasing also reveals how he now has the agency to do so. Unlike before, where Tomoe questioned even his ability to escape, now he’s seriously considering it.

Tomoe then stops referring to it as a “moratorium” and calls it a “tiny delay”. This shift, although may seem irrelevant, actually reflects a new perspective for Tomoe: Initially, the “moratorium” felt like an insurmountable hurdle that Tomoe has no power to take on. However, as the song progresses, he begins to see that the obstacle of the “moratorium” — his fear — isn’t as daunting as he once believed, as it turns out to be something small. Now, without a single doubt, Tomoe has finally found the courage to leap over it — signifying a bold step into a new phase of life, leaving behind all his fear and doubts that used to hold him back.

#tokyo color sonic!!#miyazono tomoe

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rnsk-kousatsu · 2 months ago

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"Becoming as One" and the Themes of Harmony in Digimon Survive

Overanalyzing Aoi and Shuuji again, because this is my new hobby ever since I played Survive.

They share many parallels, both obvious and subtle, that I feel are often overlooked. One of the lesser-discussed similarities is how their corruption arcs culminate in “bio-merging” with their respective partnermon, a process where the human and partnermon become a single entity. Since both characters are Harmony-aligned, I believe it’s worth exploring how these instances of bio-merging relate to and represent the themes of Harmony. More under the cut.

TWs: discussions of self-loathing and suicidal thoughts

Given that the partnermons are meant to reflect their human partner’s true self, I find it somewhat ironic that in two out of the three instances of bio-merging in Survive, the result paradoxically embodies a loss of self. While it makes sense when you consider the Harmony kids’ common thread of seeking conformity, one might expect that merging with one’s true self would lead to the realization of true selfhood. Instead, these unifications become vehicles of self-erasure, where the former self is submerged by a new identity, as they are represented as dark evolutions that occur when the ideals of Harmony are taken to an extreme.

To get what I mean, let’s consider Kaito’s corruption arc. Symbolically, Kaito letting go of Dracumon by fusing Vamdemon (Dracumon) with Piemon can be seen as him discarding his conscience to further his selfish desires without any regard for others. This makes sense to most of us easily, because we’re consistently shown how Dracumon acts as Kaito’s restraint throughout the story — his “moral compass”, if you will. Without Dracumon, there’s no one who can keep Kaito in check anymore. So, the “death” of Dracumon being the metaphor for Kaito going morally bankrupt feels pretty intuitive, at least to me personally.

In contrast, I didn't find the symbolism in Shuuji’s and Aoi’s corruption arcs—particularly their fusion with their partners—as immediately intuitive, for the reasons I’ve outlined earlier. However, after mulling over their arcs a bit more, I’ve come to the realization how both of them becoming one with their respective partner can actually carry multifaceted symbolism that may not be immediately apparent. Also, the different nuances in how the themes of Harmony manifest in their arcs mean that the symbolism works a bit differently in each of their arcs too. Let me explain.

First off, we’ll look at Shuuji and Lopmon. Shuuji’s arc revolves around his struggle with self-acceptance. Through his father’s relentless expectations, he’s always made to feel inadequate, and in turn it drives him to constantly force himself into an imaginary mold that he doesn’t fit into. He does this by repressing his true feelings while trying to live up to (what he believes to be) his father’s idea of a perfect self. His very apparent hatred of Lopmon is mostly meant to represent his self-loathing, among many other things — in a way, Lopmon serves as a reminder for Shuuji that he hasn’t truly changed into the person that his father wants him to be. This is why Shuuji keeps trying to force Lopmon to change as well, even if it means cruelly pushing him beyond his limits.

The outcome of Shuuji’s arc depends on whether he comes to recognize his mistaken beliefs. If he fails to do so, Lopmon evolves into Wendimon and devours him. As this post has already described, this scene serves as a metaphor for Shuuji succumbing to the self-hatred that has been eating away at him from within, leading to a complete loss of self. Because, in both a figurative and literal sense, no trace of Shuuji’s former, “true” self remains—just as there’s nothing left of the Lopmon we once knew in Wendimon.

Most people believe that this is the moment where Shuuji finally dies, but I think that isn’t the case. In Survive, the lore states that a partnermon dies the moment their human dies. However, Wendimon doesn’t die right after he completely consumes Shuuji, and instead, he gains the ability to speak. Make of this what you will, but in my opinion, this gives a clue that Wendimon being alive after consuming Shuuji isn’t merely a narrative convenience to keep him around for the fight, and that Shuuji has actually been absorbed into Wendimon. In other words, Shuuji and Lopmon are finally unified in their suffering as Wendimon, with Wendimon’s monstrous form serving as a visual manifestation of both Shuuji and Lopmon’s new identity, warped beyond recognition even to themselves.

If you pay close attention to Wendimon’s speech, you’ll notice that he actually speaks with two voices — both Shuuji’s and Lopmon’s. It can be hard to tell since the voices are heavily filtered, but Shuuji’s voice has a slightly deeper pitch than Lopmon. Even if you can’t tell, the story hints at this detail by showing how the other kids and partnermons can distinguish between the voices when Wendimon speaks.

“IT HURRRTS… I’M SCAAARED… I DON’T WANNA DO THIIIS…” “WHAT’S… WRONG WITH ME? WHAT SHOULD I HAVE DONE…?”

I bring this up because it’s intriguing how Wendimon speaks in dual voices despite supposedly being a single entity. It’s as if the story is trying to convey that, even in their merged state, Shuuji and Lopmon aren’t truly reconciled — and it’s because Shuuji hasn’t silenced the part of himself that continues to question and doubt. To understand this, notice how Wendimon wails about two entirely different things: in Lopmon’s voice, he cries about how he doesn’t want to do any of this anymore, how he’s scared of this and how it hurts. Meanwhile, in Shuuji’s voice, he rants about not knowing what he should have done to make others happy (but especially to please his father, as I believe his words are primarily directed at his father) and wonders if it’s better for him to disappear if his existence is a nuisance to other people. While Lopmon continuously voices Shuuji’s true feelings that he buries deep inside, Shuuji himself remains fixated on seeking external validation and is concerned about what others think of him even at the expense of his own well-being.

To understand why Wendimon having dual voices is relevant to this discussion in the first place, let’s now turn our attention to Aoi and Labramon. Aoi’s character arc revolves around her desire for authority and proactiveness, which she struggles with because her self-consciousness constantly holds her back from taking actions. This is largely why Aoi and Labramon’s dynamic is vastly different from Shuuji and Lopmon’s relationship, because while Aoi also represses the side of her that Labramon displays — whether subconsciously or not — Labramon’s outspokenness instead embodies the part of Aoi that she wishes she could express more freely but is suppressed by her insecurity.

When Aoi merges with Labramon, the situation is slightly different from Shuuji’s experience, though it carries its own tragic implications: in an effort to save Aoi, Labramon sacrifices her own “self” to become the new force that sustains Aoi’s life. Perhaps because it’s also fueled by Aoi’s overwhelming guilt and frustration over her perceived powerlessness, the act leads them to bio-merge and dark-evolve into Plutomon.

While not entirely analogous, I think it’s fair to make a comparison between Plutomon and Wendimon. The game itself does this as well: upon seeing Aoi becomes Plutomon and kills Piemon, Kaito instantly makes a remark of Aoi becoming like Shuuji. In English, the line is worded as:

“Don’t tell me this is like with Shuuji… When he turned all evil!?”

However, in Japanese, the line is:

“まさか……シュウジのように……暗黒進化か！？” “Don’t tell me… she’s become like Shuuji… is it a dark evolution!?”

It’s interesting to me that Kaito immediately draws a parallel between her and Shuuji. And I have to emphasize that it’s specifically Shuuji, not Lopmon. I’m saying this because they all perceive Plutomon as Aoi instead of Labramon (the game emphasizes this too by having Plutomon’s name initially written as “Aoi?”), whereas we (as the players) tend to perceive Wendimon as Lopmon instead of Shuuji. See where I’m getting at here?

“Aoi, you say? No, I’ve cast off that weak persona.”

Now, unlike Wendimon, who retains both Shuuji’s and Lopmon’s voices, Plutomon speaks only with Aoi’s voice. One interpretation that we can draw is that, unlike Wendimon, the singular voice might represent Aoi and Labramon reaching a true level of mutual understanding and harmony where they don’t have to speak over each other in order to be heard. But I think there’s more to it: given that Labramon is consistently depicted in the story as voicing Aoi’s inner thoughts that she keeps holding back from expressing, I think this is meant to also symbolize her internal resolution where she no longer has the need to externalize her inner thoughts through Labramon, as she now fully embodies those thoughts herself. This might seem empowering at first, seeing how her newfound confidence seems to have conquered her lingering self-doubt that used to haunt her. However, on the other hand, the loss of Labramon’s separate voice means that Aoi has lost an external perspective. The implication is that Aoi is now entirely self-reliant, with no external check on her thoughts or actions. In other words, Aoi has lost the ability to see herself from an outside perspective that used to keep her grounded and connected to the world outside herself.

“Labramon agrees, from deep down inside me.”

(I put the screenshot above because I find it interesting — I think the fact that Aoi speaks on behalf of Labramon, rather than letting Labramon speak for herself, further supports the interpretation of Aoi having absorbed Labramon’s voice into her own, leaving no room for external input anymore.)

This ultimately leads Aoi to form a singular belief system, one that’s entirely shaped by her internal convictions. And it drives her into a dangerously inflexible mindset where any form of disagreement or differing perspective is perceived as a threat to her newly discovered harmony. In her mind now, the only way to ensure peace and unity is to eliminate the possibility of conflict altogether by merging everyone with their partnermon, creating a single, unified consciousness. And Aoi is absolutely resolute in this, because she has now isolated herself in her certainty by silencing other voices, becoming rigid and intolerant of any challenge to her worldview — one rooted in a distorted sense of harmony that results in a situation where disagreement is eradicated, not resolved.

Some of you might find it ironic that, despite supposedly embodying the corruption of harmony, Aoi (as Plutomon) seems to act more on her own selfish ideals rather than striving for true consensus, even if flawed. However, this makes sense when you contrast her motivation with Shuuji’s: while Shuuji is driven by external pressures and doesn’t necessarily “enjoy” conforming to others’ expectations, Aoi’s actions stem purely from her own self-imposed ideals. Aoi genuinely values social propriety and seeks to uphold it (as @digisurvive puts it, she’s the reason why the group is very hierarchical — she always makes sure that everyone follows the rules of conduct properly), so it’s natural that the themes of Harmony would manifest this way in her corruption arc. So, while Shuuji being absorbed into Wendimon through devouring represents the ultimate death of self, Aoi’s bio-merging with Labramon into Plutomon instead gives her an epiphany of her ideal version of “Harmony”—one she feels compelled to enforce on everyone.

#digimon survive #shibuya aoi #kayama shuuji #plutomon #wendimon #labramon #lopmon #digimon survive spoilers

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rnsk-kousatsu · 3 months ago

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Something to add regarding my explanation of Guanyin, since it can lead to some misunderstandings: I have to clarify that while she’s also referred to as a “goddess” sometimes, Guanyin isn’t exactly considered a deity in the way gods are understood in many theistic religions. Precisely, she’s a bodhisattva, a figure who has attained a high level of enlightenment but chooses to remain in the cycle of birth and death (samsara) to help all sentient beings achieve liberation (nirvana). Sure, she’s venerated and often prayed to, but the veneration of Guanyin is more about seeking the embodiment of compassion than worshipping a divine being with power over the universe.

Aoi and Shuuji : Gendered Subtexts in Their Partners' Evolution Forms and How They Parallel Each Other

Believe it or not, this started out as me about to go on a long rant about the discourse on that Wukong game, since I feel like both sides are presenting their arguments in disingenuous manner regarding queer and feminist readings of Journey to the West (which involve discussions of Wukong and Guanyin as representations of feminist ideals and queer identities). However, I decided I wasn’t that invested in the discourse to write long paragraphs about it, so instead I chose to channel my energy to discuss something else you might not expect to have anything to do with this… which is Digimon Survive (lol). This writeup is going to discuss about Shuuji and Lopmon again, anyway (lol) — and yes, it’s going to be discussing about gender as well, and I’ll be doing it by drawing parallels with another pair, Aoi and Labramon.

A disclaimer before we start: as I’ll be discussing about the various interpretations of Guanyin (that, I feel, some might find sensitive — as they relate to Guanyin’s gender identity), I’d like to make it clear that I’m not a Buddhist nor was I raised a Buddhist by my family. However, I grew up in a culturally Chinese family, and have close relatives who are Buddhists that I’ve consulted on the depictions of Guanyin for the purpose of this writeup. I’ve also done extensive research about the figure online using various resources in English, Chinese, and Japanese. Take this information as you may (this also applies to other deities/figures I talk about in this writeup too, anyway). Heed this disclaimer here as well.

Another note: This writeup wasn’t as well-planned as my previous ones, so I apologize if it seems like I’m jumping from one point to another. It’s mostly me thinking out loud about more parallels I’ve discovered and the ideas I have about them. Just a heads up.

Some people have pointed out the parallels between Aoi and Shuuji, particularly in how their character arcs explore gendered themes. Both characters initially put on a facade that aligns with societal expectations of their gender roles, and each is paired with a Digimon/Kemonogami partner that jarringly contrasts with their outward persona — which makes sense, since the partnermons reflect the true self they both try to suppress. This post, in particular, also elaborates a bit further on the parallels by discussing about how their character arcs move in opposite directions. To reiterate: Aoi begins as the nurturing and permissive mother figure of the group, almost stereotypically feminine, but as the story progresses, she steps into a leadership role and embraces a more assertive personality, which isn’t necessarily associated with traditional femininity. Conversely, Shuuji starts off trying to fit into the rigid mold of an authoritative leader, believing this is what’s expected of him as the oldest boy in the group. However, he eventually must embrace his gentle and caring side to enable himself to reach his full potential, which challenges the initial idea presented that masculinity must always equate to emotional stoicism. Basically, by the story’s end (at least in the Truthful route), both characters take on roles more commonly associated with the opposite gender.

You might think the gendered themes of their character arcs end just there, but if you look into the evolutions of Labramon and Lopmon, you’ll uncover even more layers of gendered subtext — undertones that, while likely unintended, are intriguing to explore. It’s something that seems to have gone largely unnoticed, so that’s exactly what I’ll write about now. Hopefully this can offer another interesting perspective to their character arcs.

Let’s start with Labramon, as the subtexts in her evolutions feel less subtle to me. From the game mechanics alone, initially, Labramon functions primarily as a support unit, equipped with a healing skill that aligns with stereotypical feminine roles of care and nurturing. However, as she evolves, I’d say this role shifts rather significantly. In her evolution forms (Dobermon, Cerberumon, Anubimon, and even Plutomon), Labramon transitions into a powerful offensive unit, taking on a more aggressive and assertive role that contrasts with her earlier, more traditionally feminine characterization.

What’s also particularly striking is the design and appearance of these evolutions. Dobermon, Cerberumon, and Plutomon all adopt distinctly masculine aesthetics, characterized by strong, fierce, and intimidating designs that align with traditional male archetypes. They also shed the cutesy appearance that Labramon initially has, replacing it with a color palette dominated by black and deep shadowy tones on top of very sharp silhouettes, which starkly contrast with Labramon’s original softer look. It almost feels as though her evolutions discard femininity to embrace more conventionally masculine traits like strength, aggression, and dominance. The game even alludes to this by showing how taken aback Aoi is when she first sees Cerberumon’s intimidating appearance.

Not only that, both Labramon’s two ultimate forms, Anubimon and Plutomon, are based on male deities. Anubis, the god of afterlife in ancient Egyptian religion, is strictly male in his depiction as a man with a jackal head. Even the etymology of his name reinforces this — the name “Anubis” comes from the ancient Egyptian word “Inpw”, which is masculine in grammatical gender. In ancient Egyptian language, words had gender, and the suffix “-w” typically indicated a masculine form (hypothetically speaking, the female form of “Inpw” would have been “Inpwt”). Additionally, Anubis has always been depicted with male attributes and roles in Egyptian mythology, such as being a protector of tombs, which was customarily a male-associated role in ancient Egypt.

Pluto is also consistently depicted as male in the original Greek mythology. The name “Pluto” (Plūtō) itself is the Latinized version of the Greek “Plouton”, which is a euphemism for the underworld god Hades, who is also strictly male. What’s even more interesting to note is that Pluto is the Roman counterpart of Dis Pater (Rex Infernus), whose name is commonly interpreted as “Rich Father” and may be a direct translation of Plouton. Note how the meaning of the name emphasizes the male aspect of the deity, as the title “father” is already inherently masculine.

Despite all of that, though, one thing I want to also note here is that Labramon and her evolutions consistently maintain a feminine speech pattern that’s largely shared by Aoi. An explanation for context: in Japanese, you generally can tell the gender identity of the speaker from their speech pattern (i.e., the way a male individual speaks and a female individual speaks are pretty distinct). I find this especially interesting, because it shows that you’re meant to take Labramon and her evolutions as female despite the traditionally “male” depictions.

(Sure, you might argue that this is just another instance of Digimon taking liberties with gender depiction, as they did with Garudamon in Adventure. However, I still find it intriguing to note that among the female cast, Aoi is the only character whose partner’s evolutions are consistently gendered as “male” within the Digimon franchise.)

Let’s move on to Lopmon and his evolutions. While Lopmon doesn’t undergo the same dramatic shifts in appearance the way Labramon does, he does give off a somewhat feminine vibe with how cute and very “pink” (for the lack of a better word) he looks. This has led to some mistaking Lopmon as female, even though his speech pattern closely resembles Shuuji’s distinctly male speech pattern (this is a similar case to Aoi and Labramon anyway, where they share similar speech patterns with each other). Aside from that, there is also still a gendered theming present in his evolutions. In particular, two of his evolutions, Turuiemon and Andiramon, feature genderqueer elements in their origins.

As I mentioned in my previous writeup, Turuiemon is based on Tu’er Ye (Tù’eryé/兔兒爺), the rabbit deity entrusted with saving the people from a plague. According to the legend, Tu’er Ye needed to borrow clothes to wear in order to gain the trust of the people. What I didn’t mention, however, is that Tu’er Ye also had a female counterpart called Tu’er Nainai (Tù’ernǎinai/兔兒奶奶). While these two figures might seem distinct, they could actually be one and the same deity. In some versions of the legend, Tu’er Ye changed appearance depending on the clothing donated to him by the people he helped, implying that Tu’er Nainai could simply be a cross-dressing Tu’er Ye. In short, Tu’er Ye can be interpreted as genderqueer due to the fluidity of his gender presentation in these legends.

The genderqueer theme becomes even more prominent in Antila, the figure upon which Andiramon is based. Antila (Āndǐluò/安底羅) is one of the Twelve Heavenly Generals serving Bhaisajyaguru (the Medicine Buddha). Although Antila is strictly depicted as male and isn’t necessarily genderqueer in the original legend, he takes on a genderqueer interpretation through his depiction in Japanese religious syncretism of Buddhism and Shinto (shinbutsu/kamihotoke/神仏): Through a concept known as honji-suijaku (本地垂迹), where Buddhas and bodhisattvas serve as the true forms (honji/本地) that have worldly manifestations (suijaku/垂迹) as Shinto kami (神), it is said that Antila was the worldly manifestation of the bodhisattva Guanyin (i.e., Guanyin is the honji of Antila, and Antila is the suijaku of Guanyin). Guanyin as a figure is primarily depicted as female-presenting. However, I should note that the nuances of Guanyin’s gender are complex, so I’ll address them in the next paragraph.

For starters: Guanyin (Guānyīn/Kannon/觀音) is the bodhisattva of compassion. As a bodhisattva, she’s a Buddhist figure, but in East Asian and Southeast Asian folk religions, she’s also sometimes known as the Goddess of Mercy. While some Buddhist schools in East and Southeast Asia recognize Guanyin as a genderless or androgynous entity, she’s consistently depicted to be female-presenting, so as a result, East and Southeast Asians commonly refer to her as “Mother Guanyin” or “Goddess Guanyin”. However, this hasn’t always been the case throughout history, as there was a time long ago when Guanyin was depicted as a male. You see, Guanyin is essentially the same figure as Avalokitasvara (also written as Avalokiteśvara), originally depicted as male in India. He was initially depicted as male in China as well, where East Asian Buddhism first originates. However, seeing that the traits the bodhisattva had (e.g., compassionate, merciful, and nurturing) were seen as conventionally feminine by Chinese people, eventually the depiction of Guanyin as female took over. This change was so profound that by the time Buddhism spread further into East and Southeast Asia, the female depiction of Guanyin became the dominant one, solidifying her status as a “female” divinity instead of a “male” one. So, it’s safe to say that in the case of Guanyin as the true form of Antila, the intention is for her to be female, despite Antila being a male himself.

(Kind of a tangent: I don’t necessarily disagree with trans readings of Guanyin, whether in relation to her being Antila’s true form or the historical nuances of her gender depictions. I believe it’s a completely valid interpretation, to say the least. However, I must note that this perspective isn’t universally accepted — at least not among the Buddhists I know personally — so it’s important to approach this argument carefully. But anyway, I digress.)

I don’t have much to say about Cherubimon, as he is based on cherubim, who aren’t strictly defined as male or female, as far as I know. However, I personally find that Cherubimon’s appearance carries a distinctly feminine vibe, primarily through the character design and symbolic elements. I mean, Cherubimon features a softer, more rounded form, with large, expressive eyes that convey a sense of gentleness and add some cute factors. The pastel color palette, often dominated by shades of pink, further enhances this somewhat feminine quality. Additionally, his demeanor and role as a guardian figure align with traits typically associated with femininity, such as nurturing and protective instincts. I think it’s fair to say that the combination of these visual and thematic elements gives Cherubimon a feminine presence that contrasts with the more aggressive or imposing designs of most other ultimate level Digimon (including Labramon’s ultimate forms).

Interestingly, unlike Labramon’s evolutions, Lopmon’s evolutions don’t always retain Lopmon’s masculine speech pattern. Specifically, Andiramon and Cherubimon adopt more neutral speech patterns that aren’t distinctly masculine or feminine. I believe this is intended to represent both Andiramon and Cherubimon as more mature forms of Lopmon, with speech patterns that convey a sense of regality and dignity. Given the lore in Survive, where Digimon/Kemonogami are seen as the true selves of their human partners, it’s reasonable to still interpret both Andiramon and Cherubimon as male within the context of the game.

In addition to the individual subtexts, it’s also noteworthy to see how Labramon’s and Lopmon’s evolution lines as a whole reflect contrasting archetypes that align with traditional gender roles. As Labramon evolves into forms like Anubimon and Plutomon, she embodies a theme of judgment and authority, taking on the traditionally masculine role of one who wields power, dispenses justice, and determines the fates of others. On the other hand, Lopmon’s true evolution line (Turuiemon, Andiramon, and Cherubimon) centers around the theme of a guardian deity, which carries more feminine connotations such as care, compassion, and protection. I just think the whole contrast is worth pointing out, considering it aligns very well with the overall gendered undertones present in Aoi and Shuuji’s respective character arcs.

To end this writeup, I just want to reiterate once again: While these gendered subtexts might not be immediately apparent or universally acknowledged, I still think they provide additional depth to the narrative. They also offer a fascinating lens through which you can further explore both Aoi and Shuuji, beyond the much more obvious aspects of their arcs.

P.S. Another parallel I noticed in their evolution lines that I don’t know how to make sense of, but still find interesting (even if it might be coincidental): Labramon’s underworld theme versus Lopmon’s celestial theme. I find these contrasting themes intriguing as well, but I’m not sure how they fit into Aoi’s and Shuuji’s arcs. Any thoughts on this? Also feel free to add if you notice any else from Labramon and Lopmon!

#clarification

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rnsk-kousatsu · 3 months ago

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Aoi and Shuuji : Gendered Subtexts in Their Partners' Evolution Forms and How They Parallel Each Other

#digimon survive #shibuya aoi #kayama shuuji #labramon #lopmon #dobermon #cerberumon #anubimon #plutomon #turuiemon #andiramon #cherubimon

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rnsk-kousatsu · 3 months ago

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Wendimon vs. Turuiemon: Mythological Explanations and Contrasting Parallels in Digimon Survive

This is a rewrite of a writeup I previously posted on my old archived Digimon Survive blog, @digital-survivor

Initially inspired by this post by @digisurvive on the mythological explanations for some of the kids’ partners, out of curiosity I decided to check if there’s anything interesting about Lopmon’s evolutions that I could possibly relate back to their roles in Survive (especially in regards to Shuuji as Lopmon’s partner). What I found turned out to be much more interesting than I anticipated, because it seems very likely that they intentionally incorporated elements from the original mythologies, particularly for Wendimon and Turuiemon — both of whom are Lopmon’s adult forms — even going so far as to draw parallels between them. More of it under the cut.

TWs: mentions of suicide and self-harm

At first glance, it might seem that Wendimon and Turuiemon have no connection at all, given that they originate from two vastly different cultures with no geographical ties. Wendimon is based on Wendigo from Algonquian folklore (primarily among Indigenous tribes in North America), while Turuiemon is based on Tu’er Ye (Tù’eryé/兔兒爺, literally “Lord Leveret”) from a Chinese folk religion in Beijing. On top of that, Digimon as a franchise itself rarely makes their connection clear beyond Wendimon and Turuiemon being the default adult forms of Lopmon. Despite all of that, there’s actually one theme that they do have in common: they both make their appearance during times of crisis. And yet, they both have starkly contrasting roles in their respective mythology.

Let’s start with Wendigo. Wendigo is told to be an evil spirit that emerges during the harshest of cold winters, when resources are scarce and survival becomes increasingly difficult. It preys on those who succumb to desperation and greed by possessing them and turning them into cannibals. Once possessed by Wendigo, the individual is cursed with an insatiable hunger — no matter how much they consume, they will forever remain emaciated and never feel full.

We can already see several references that Survive makes to the actual Wendigo mythology, the most obvious being Wendimon’s act of devouring Shuuji when he finally succumbs to insanity and desperation, which references Wendigo’s association with cannibalism. Many interpret this scene as a representation of Shuuji’s final surrender to his self-harm tendencies (in short, suicide) — and they aren’t wrong at all, but we can go a bit further by drawing more symbolism from the Wendigo myth: Shuuji is trapped in a self-destructive spiral driven by his constant need for external validation and his unfulfilled craving for approval, particularly from his father. This craving can be seen as a form of greed — not for material wealth perhaps, but for affirmation from others. In the same way that Wendigo’s victims are possessed for their greed and cursed with an insatiable hunger that leads to their ruin, Shuuji’s relentless yet fruitless pursuit of recognition forces him to repress his true feelings, and you can say this leads to his loss of self and eventually his demise, where he is metaphorically — and then quite literally — consumed by his own desperation. It’s also fitting that Lopmon evolves into Wendimon when Shuuji is at his lowest and very much cornered with no choice but to resort to desperate measures, which mirrors how Wendigo only appears during the coldest winters, when both despair and survival instincts are at their peak.

Let’s contrast that with Tu’er Ye, Turuiemon’s namesake. According to Chinese mythology, Tu’er Ye is also known as Yutu (Yùtù/玉兔, literally “Jade Rabbit”), the rabbit on the moon who pounds the elixir of life. Legend says that, once upon a time, he was sent by the Moon Goddess Chang’e (Cháng’é/嫦娥) to eradicate a plague on the land. The people of the land were initially distrustful of Tu’er Ye, seeing that his fur was white and white symbolized death in Chinese culture. However, this didn’t stop Tu’er Ye from saving them — he visited a nearby temple to borrow some clothes that he could wear to cover his white fur. After that, the people welcomed him, and Tu’er Ye successfully saved them from the plague. Ever since then, the people have been revering him as a symbol of protection. He is viewed as a guardian figure, especially for children, and is celebrated during festivals for his role in ensuring health and safety.

Even beyond Survive, the broader Digimon lore references Tu’er Ye through Turuiemon’s profile: Turuiemon is described as a Digimon that hunts down viruses that exploit e-mail, much like how Tu’er Ye’s mission is to eradicate the plague. Survive, however, takes this a step further by contrasting Turuiemon’s role in the story with Wendimon’s: While their evolution scenes take place during the exact same point in the story (that is, the peak of Shuuji’s mental breakdown), unlike Wendimon, Turuiemon appears to save him from a devastating situation, akin to how Tu’er Ye arrived to heal the people from the plague. Additionally, just as Tu’er Ye was initially distrusted by the people and could only rescue them after he gained their trust, Lopmon’s evolution into Turuiemon is only triggered when Shuuji finally places his trust in Lopmon (which in turn also symbolizes his willingness to accept himself for who he is). In contrast to Wendimon, whose appearance causes Shuuji’s death, Turuiemon sustains his life — which is very apt considering that Tu’er Ye is known for pounding the elixir of life, like mentioned earlier.

Aside from their mythological references, you can still draw more interesting parallels between Wendimon and Turuiemon from the story alone to see how they’re opposite of each other. Wendimon has an intimidating appearance and strength which gives Shuuji the impression that he has finally gained the upper hand after feeling weak for so long. However, this strength is deceptive — it isn’t born out of genuine growth, but instead out of Shuuji pushing Lopmon (and himself) beyond his limits. His obstinacy in this is fueled by the belief that the pain will help Lopmon grow stronger, just as his father’s harsh upbringing has forged him into the person he is today. It isn’t wrong to say that Lopmon does grow stronger from it by turning into Wendimon, but Wendimon’s strength is so destructive that it literally destroys Shuuji.

On the other hand, Turuiemon, while not exactly what you would picture as physically strong and imposing, only evolves once Shuuji finally adopts a healthier mindset — one of self-acceptance, most importantly. Sure, he doesn’t look that much more powerful than Lopmon, with his size only growing a little from his child form. However, it’s surprisingly this form of a more balanced strength that truly protects and saves Shuuji instead. It sends a message that I personally find very heartwarming — that real strength isn’t always about how much force you can exert, and that embracing who you are, rather than trying to force yourself into a mold that you don’t fit, is what leads to true and lasting strength to face adversity.

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