Inside me, 'Dragon Ball' became a thing of the past, but later, I

Host: The night hummed with the faint buzz of fluorescent lights, and the studio smelled of coffee, dust, and the faint burnt tang of film reels that hadn’t been touched in years. In the corner, old storyboards were pinned to a cracked corkboard, their colors faded but their energy still alive — frames of heroes mid-flight, fireballs bursting, eyes burning with purpose.

Jack sat slouched in a swivel chair, a pencil twirling between his fingers, his grey eyes fixed on a half-drawn panel before him. Jeeny leaned against the doorframe, her arms crossed, the faint glow from the hallway spilling over her face.

Jeeny: “You’re still here? It’s past midnight.”

Jack: “Yeah. I said I’d finish this scene, but…”

Host: His voice trailed off, swallowed by the hum of the empty studio. The rain outside beat softly against the windows, like a quiet reminder that the world was still moving — even if he wasn’t.

Jeeny stepped closer, her footsteps soft against the linoleum.

Jeeny: “You’ve been working on this for months. You don’t even like this show anymore.”

Jack: “That’s the problem.”

Jeeny: “The problem?”

Jack: “Yeah. I don’t like it… but I can’t stop caring about it either.”

Host: He leaned back, staring at the ceiling, the light flickering across the lines of exhaustion etched into his face.

Jack: “Akira Toriyama once said, ‘Inside me, Dragon Ball became a thing of the past, but later, I got upset at the live-action film, revised the script for the anime film, and complained about the quality of the TV anime. I guess, at some point, it became a work that I like so much that I can’t leave it alone.’”

He paused, the words hanging in the stale air like the last note of a fading melody.

Jack: “I get that. When something comes from you — your hands, your thoughts, your blood — you never really let it go. Even when you tell yourself you have.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that exhausting, Jack? To love something so much that you can’t leave it alone?”

Jack: “It’s not love. It’s… obsession. Or maybe guilt.”

Jeeny: “Guilt?”

Jack: “Yeah. For what it could’ve been. For what it still should be.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked louder now, each second cutting deeper into the silence. The posters around them — faded heroes, burning skies — seemed to lean in, listening.

Jeeny: “But that’s not how art works. You can’t keep fixing it forever. Sometimes you have to let the world misinterpret it.”

Jack: “And watch it rot?”

Jeeny: “No. Watch it live its own life.”

Host: Jack turned toward her, a flicker of defiance in his eyes, the kind born not from arrogance, but from heartbreak.

Jack: “You don’t let a child walk into traffic, Jeeny. If it’s yours — if you built it from nothing — you protect it.”

Jeeny: “Even if protecting it means destroying yourself?”

Jack: “If that’s the cost, yeah.”

Host: Jeeny sighed, her breath fogging faintly in the cold air of the old studio. She looked around — at the drawings, the models, the scripts — all fragments of a story that once burned bright and now merely smoldered.

Jeeny: “You know what I think? Toriyama didn’t hate what he created. He hated seeing it treated like it didn’t matter. That’s what you feel too. You don’t hate your work — you hate seeing people forget what it meant.”

Jack: “They didn’t forget. They just turned it into something else. Something… marketable. Something clean.”

Jeeny: “Maybe they’re just finding their own meaning in it.”

Jack: “But it’s wrong, Jeeny. They don’t see the dirt, the struggle, the nights without sleep. They see polished nostalgia. They don’t see the man who bled to make it real.”

Host: The light flickered again, illuminating the wall behind him — a hand-drawn mural of a character mid-battle, frozen in motion, forever suspended between creation and collapse.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the point of creation, Jack. You don’t own what you make forever. It’s like letting a piece of your soul out into the world and knowing it’ll change shape without asking your permission.”

Jack: “Then what’s the point? If it’s just going to become something else?”

Jeeny: “Because that’s how things live. Nothing stays pure, not even art. It grows — even if it grows into something ugly. It’s still alive.”

Host: Jack looked at her, his eyes softening. His hand fell from the pencil, landing on the edge of the drawing. His fingers brushed over the rough lines — imperfect, human, alive.

Jack: “You make it sound noble. But it doesn’t feel noble. It feels like watching your heart rust in public.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But isn’t that better than keeping it locked away until it suffocates?”

Jack: “You don’t understand. Every frame I draw, every line I rewrite… it’s me trying to keep it from becoming something unrecognizable.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s not about keeping it — it’s about remembering it.”

Host: A long silence stretched between them, thick with the hum of the fluorescent bulb and the soft patter of rain. Jack stared at the mural again — his creation, his curse.

Jack: “Do you ever think about why people keep revisiting the same stories? The same heroes, the same worlds?”

Jeeny: “Because they’re trying to find themselves again in them.”

Jack: “Exactly. But what happens when you can’t find yourself there anymore?”

Jeeny: “Then it’s time to write a new one.”

Host: The rain outside slowed, the sound becoming faint, like a whisper fading into sleep. Jack leaned forward, picking up his pencil once more. He looked at the drawing — a young hero with defiant eyes, standing against the storm.

Jack: “I used to think if I just perfected it, it would finally mean what I wanted it to. But now I think… it’s not about perfection. It’s about memory.”

Jeeny: “Toriyama understood that too. That’s why he couldn’t leave it alone. You don’t revisit something because it’s perfect — you revisit it because it’s part of you. Because walking away feels like cutting out a piece of yourself.”

Jack: “Yeah… you’re right.”

Host: The air shifted. The weight in the room lifted slightly, like the space itself had exhaled. Jeeny smiled faintly — tired, warm.

Jeeny: “So what now? Are you going to keep fixing it?”

Jack: “No. I think I’ll just finish it. Let it be what it is.”

Jeeny: “Good. Maybe that’s the real kind of love — not the kind that controls, but the kind that lets go.”

Host: Jack chuckled, low and rough. He looked out the window, where dawn was beginning to stretch its first colors across the horizon. The rain had stopped, leaving behind the faint shimmer of wet glass and renewal.

Jack: “You know what’s funny? I used to think I created these worlds to escape reality. But now I realize I was just trying to understand it.”

Jeeny: “And did you?”

Jack: “Maybe not. But I drew it anyway.”

Host: The camera of the mind lingers there — on Jack, bent over his desk again, drawing not to fix, but to remember. The light softens, the shadows fade. The studio becomes a kind of church — sacred, flawed, and full of ghosts that never stopped loving their creator.

And as the first sunlight spills across the scattered pages, the old stories seem to come alive once more — not because they’re perfect, but because someone still cares enough not to let them go.

In that small, flickering space between obsession and affection, between past and creation, something eternal breathes again.