#animeessay

Among the many memorable characters in The Apothecary Diaries, Loulan stands out not through loud words or dramatic acts, but through her silence, her grace, and the quiet weight of her presence. Introduced as a breathtakingly beautiful dancer from a distant western land, she enters the inner palace like a living work of art - admired, coveted, yet fundamentally untouchable. Her elegance is not merely visual; it is a shield, a performance, a survival strategy.

In Season 1, Loulan speaks little and smiles even less. Her movements are refined, her demeanor immaculate, her expression unreadable. She seems almost otherworldly - a flawless figure carved out of restraint. And yet, there is a lingering sorrow in the air around her. She is not free, not truly seen, and certainly not loved for who she is. The palace reveres her beauty but denies her humanity.

It’s in Season 2 that the mask begins to slip. Disguised as a simple maid for a covert mission, Loulan experiences, for the first time, what it means to be ordinary and in that, free. We see her laugh, tease, explore, and connect. Her voice becomes soft and youthful. Her eyes light up. It’s in these fleeting moments that we see the real girl behind the façade - curious, playful, tender-hearted. A teenager, not a trophy.

But freedom in the palace is always temporary, and innocence is dangerous. When Loulan narrowly survives an assassination attempt orchestrated in part by her own politically ambitious parents. The tragedy of her position is fully revealed. She is not a daughter in their eyes, but a piece to be moved on a game board. A symbol. A pawn.

And yet, even when betrayed, even when caged again, Loulan never fully breaks. Her dignity endures. There’s a fragile strength in her - quiet but unyielding. She doesn’t fight with swords or speeches. Her rebellion is subtler: to remain herself in a world that only values the image she represents.

What if Inosuke Hashibira stepped onto a Noh stage as the shite (the main role)?

Boar head on. Slow, deliberate footsteps down the bridgeway. Across from him: Shinobu, Kanao… and Doma—smiling that empty smile.

That slightly wild image is the starting point of my new deep-dive essay.

Because Demon Slayer has actually crossed into traditional theatre: There was a real “Noh & Kyogen: Demon Slayer: Kimetsu no Yaiba” stage production, directed by kyogen actor Mansai Nomura. So the idea of reading Demon Slayer through Noh isn’t just a fan fantasy—it’s a bridge that already exists.

In Part 1, I start from the basics:

Why masks show up worldwide (rituals, gods, ancestors, fear, protection)

How Noh masks function differently—less “raw power,” more precise emotional/time control

Why “dream Noh” (mugen-noh) is a perfect lens for Demon Slayer’s “faces vs masks” tension

If you like anime analysis that connects to Japanese culture / performing arts / anthropology, you might enjoy this.

⚠️ Spoiler note: This essay series contains major spoilers for the Infinity Castle battle involving Shinobu, Kanao, Inosuke, and Doma. If you’re not there yet, bookmark it for later.

Read the full essay (Part 1) here:

Image: 'Determination', S1E7, The Summer Hikaru Died, Netflix.

Should you ask me why exactly I’m writing about an anime—or hell, even attempting to write for an anime—for the first time despite watching the genre since I was eleven, with over two hundred completed series… I don’t know. And I’m not apologetic about it.

I suppose people may wonder what could have been so awesome or soul-moving that I had to write about it. No, not really. Why must we attach significance to bloody writing anyway?

I digress. For that, I apologise.

The show… I suppose I picked it off Netflix purely because the title didn’t pretend otherwise. The Summer Hikaru Died. We knew Hikaru was dead. Despite my long watchlist, filled with beloved new seasons of beloved old anime, why did I skip all that to watch one whose future wasn’t even certain? Now it is, but back then—it wasn’t even that funny.

The Summer Hikaru Died, Season 1.

I must say, the animation and storyline are unconventional by any standard. We know from the title: Hikaru, whoever that is, is dead. Okay, so? Now what?

It could’ve gone a dozen ways—a zombie thriller, a cutesy slice-of-life comedy where a soulless boy sees life differently, or even pure, unfiltered supernatural horror.

The last one, for those who’ve watched it, is essentially what it becomes.

Was it though?

For me, it was a colossal confusion. A slow, depressing trip I could only manage when I was in that introverted, self-loathing, world-hating mood. No, I’m not self-destructive. But yes, perhaps I am the literal definition of it.

The Summer Hikaru Died.

Despite not wanting to look at it like a better-than-god English graduate (I’m not, though I’ve suffered at the hands of one—an extremely self-obsessed and narcissistic one who should perhaps not exist, but does), I can’t help but notice: summer—a time of fun, gooey goodness, and naïve sunlit frolics—is also when you realise who you gravitate to. When you’re left alone, without the excuse of schoolwork, and you see who stays.

But Hikaru was dead.

So who the hell was Yoshiki with?

That’s the unsettling question you sit with from episode one. It sets the eerie tone—something that could have been a comedy or a thriller—but immediately twists into something darker when dead Hikaru asks, “Do I have to kill Yoshiki?” A question followed by an oozing, amoebic mass of abstract nightmare fuel. Something Hikaru never wanted to do. Even when alive.

Layered over the background of a cursed village, shady elders, daddy issues, and a mysterious stranger (not dead Hikaru) with an ancient rodent—there’s no denying the show captures a chilling, eerie adrenaline that’s hard to look away from.

The show has everything I occasionally crave: a creepy rural Japanese village, closeted romance, and those serene countryside visuals that make you want to pack up and move there—if money weren’t a problem.

But The Summer Hikaru Died played something far more spiritual than I expected. (Pardon the language; one of the first doomed generations must speak plainly, after all.)

“What the fuck even truly matters?”

That’s the one thing wrecking Yoshiki through the whole series. For twelve episodes, he toils over morals, over grief he can’t voice. Hikaru is only a monster because Yoshiki knows, or suspects, he is. And Hikaru agrees. No matter what the story tells us—Hikaru is monstrous only because Yoshiki is projecting it.

I suppose that’s why people say ignorance is bliss.

Because everyone else—the townspeople, the village elders—never doubt Hikaru. Yoshiki builds a graveyard of his own making, trying to protect the memory of his only friend, even attempting to teach the dead one how to live.

Why?

Because Hikaru only wanted to experience life.

He was living for Yoshiki.

We know that. Dying Hikaru said it himself.

He didn’t want Yoshiki to be alone.

Why?

Because Yoshiki overthinks.

(Us bro, us.)

But also, he’s the only one who knows Hikaru best. Beyond the façade. And frankly—he loves him. Romantic? Platonic? Who the hell cares?

“What the fuck even truly matters?”

It’s been troublesome since some self-claimed supreme asshole (I’m sure it was a man) laid down the rules of whom to love and how. What kind of love is “good” or “bad.” That love is cheesy. You lactose-intolerant twat. And to anyone still claiming that in 2025—I feel sad for you. You clearly aren’t loved enough.

I digress, but for that, I don’t apologise.

If you’re still here—thank you. But this isn’t a review. I never said it was.

You can find the professional critiques online. With them pretty stars…or tomatoes, whatever gets you going.

I’m just rambling.

I finished the show. I am not expecting or hoping for you to watch it, please I don’t care about you. 

And in its truest sense, Yoshiki realises—the legends, the curse, the monster—none of that matters. The real problem was himself.

We love a self-aware queen.

Hikaru was never the problem.

Frankly, I liked dead Hikaru more.

He gave me stories—the hell the villagers built for themselves with their guilt, their curse, their ritual of chopping heads and creating their own damnation.

We humans love absolution.

We love the reaping of what our ancestors sowed. We crave karma, suffering now so we can earn heaven later—even if we have to create our own hell to get there.

Such sadists we are.

They dragged my poor dead Hikaru through all that guilt who wanted to leave back to that wretched mountain, when he could’ve been splashing in the sea with a salamander pool tube, eating ice cream, or doing his schoolwork (badly, but lovingly).

But Yoshiki is no human.

And it soothed me when, early on, he accepts Hikaru—tells him he doesn’t want him to be human. That he’d rather love the new Hikaru as he is.

That moment cemented the anime as one of the highlights of the year for me. Yoshiki realises the true monster has been him all along.

That loving a monster, and trying to “fix” him, was easier than accepting that humans are the real monsters—because at least monsters and gods are honest about being black or white. We, on the other hand, live and die in murky grey.

The show, for once, dares to show that Hikaru’s evolution—his willingness to explore those greys—was because Yoshiki was already drowning in them.

It ends beautifully, painfully, with Yoshiki realising he’s the monster. That Hikaru’s self-sacrifice was just another morally “right” act born of selfish love.

Who even makes these morals?

They were never Yoshiki’s.

He just wanted his best friend.

Everything else is secondary.

And yet the looming fear of season two remains—especially now that the salamander pool tube is returned, by the ancient pooping hamster’s sidekick.

Japan does it again—layering philosophical heaviness beneath that picturesque, nostalgic summer vibe. The same one we grew up with—bad quality Shinchan, Doraemon, popsicles, and the sound of cicadas.

That perhaps, it’s better to accept being a monster than being human.