The Bunny Boy

Picture this: you’re in a room. It’s filled with boxes, cables, papers, all sorts of things that most people would throw away, but you’ve kept. You’re walking in broken circles, tripping over things as you pace. You can’t stop worrying. Can’t stop remembering. You try to convince yourself of something as if you were someone else. Please understand, please help. Your past and present are both here, along with all your dreams and delusions. All dredged up.

This is your secret room. It’s a special place, somewhere you come to feel secure, somewhere to store all your intimate things. But that doesn’t stop you from bringing all your bad thoughts and insecurities inside.

You used to have a pet bunny, back when you were a kid. Other kids made fun of you for it, but you still loved that rabbit. Then something happened. You still love rabbits, but you don’t have a pet bunny anymore.

There’s something so plaintive about this album. A need to be understood and listened to. It reminds me so much of Irisu Syndrome, another story about a lonely kid and a dead rabbit. In both The Bunny Boy and Irisu Syndrome, comfort and trauma are tangled up. Something bad happened in the past. Something soft and safe turned into something confusing and upsetting. A lonely, naive child to grew up to be a lonely, childlike adult who struggles with reality.

The Bunny Boy’s voice sounds covered with aluminium foil. He’s desperate to figure things out, and to find his brother. He gets obsessive, then deflated. The Bunny Boy wants to be listened to. He wants to be believed. But he’s not always sure if he believes himself. So many things seem connected. So many things seem disconnected. So many things seem to be about to happen. So many things never happen. He’s alone in his secret room, stuck with all his memories, fantasies, and broken things.