A Year with Makima: Tracing the Threads of Control

I still remember the first time I read her name. Makima. It appeared in a footnote of a book I wasn’t even supposed to be reading—something about the metaphysics of power in Japanese folklore. I was twenty-two, newly graduated, and chasing a thesis topic that felt like smoke in my hands. But that single name—Makima—anchored me. I followed it like a thread into a labyrinth.

What began as academic curiosity became a year-long immersion into the life of a figure I would come to admire, question, and ultimately understand in ways I hadn’t anticipated. She wasn’t real, not in the conventional sense. But her influence, the way she shaped those around her, the systems she manipulated—it all felt too real. And somewhere in that blur between fiction and meaning, I found myself.

Early Reverence: The Allure of the Unseen Hand

At first, I was enamored. Makima was the Control Devil, a being who thrived on order, on influence. She didn’t shout or destroy; she guided, nudged, and reshaped. I read every translated interview, every fan theory, every academic take on her role in Chainsaw Man. I filled notebooks with my interpretations, tracing the elegance of her control.

What fascinated me most was how she never seemed to want chaos. She wanted direction. She believed in the necessity of structure, even if it meant sacrificing spontaneity, even if it meant manipulating others. In a world where power was often raw and destructive, she wielded hers with surgical precision. I saw her as a kind of philosopher-queen, someone who understood that leadership meant making the hard decisions others wouldn’t.

I envied her clarity. I wanted to write a thesis that would elevate her as a symbol of control in the modern psyche. I told myself I was studying her, but in truth, I was trying to become more like her.

The Disillusionment: When the Strings Show

Then came the unraveling. The deeper I dug, the more uncomfortable I became. Her control wasn’t just about leadership—it was about coercion. She didn’t just guide; she manipulated. She used people like pawns, and worse, she convinced them they were doing what they wanted all along.

I began to see the cracks in her logic. Her vision of order wasn’t born of altruism; it was a carefully constructed worldview that justified her own dominance. She wasn’t protecting people from chaos—she was protecting her own sense of control. And the more I read, the more I realized how many of her followers were broken by her influence. Even those who loved her were left with scars.

It was a disorienting time. I’d built so much of my thinking around her, and now I had to reckon with the fact that she wasn’t the benevolent strategist I’d imagined. She was a mirror, and I didn’t like what I saw.

The Rediscovery: Beyond Good and Evil

But something kept me coming back. I couldn’t just discard her. There was something honest in her ruthlessness. She didn’t pretend to be good—she was clear about what she wanted, and she pursued it without apology. That, at least, was admirable.

I started reading differently. I stopped looking for heroes and began looking for truths. I revisited her dialogues, her actions, and tried to separate my judgment from my understanding. What did she reveal about human nature? About our own willingness to trade freedom for safety?

I realized she wasn’t a villain or a savior. She was a reflection of our own hunger for control. And in that, she was terrifyingly human.

The Integration: Making Room for Contradiction

Somewhere in the middle of winter, I stopped trying to categorize her. I let go of the need to label her as good or bad, right or wrong. Instead, I tried to hold her contradictions. She was manipulative, yes. But she was also visionary. She could be cruel, but she could also inspire. She was a product of a world that demanded control, and she responded with a will most of us could never muster.

That realization changed how I saw myself. I had wanted to be like her, then hated her for not living up to my ideals. But now I understood that ideals are never pure. They’re always tangled up in compromise, in fear, in the messy reality of being human.

I began to write again, not about her as a figure, but about what she represented. I wrote about control, about how we all try to shape our lives, how we all try to impose order on chaos. And I wrote about the cost of that.

What I Carry Forward: The Weight of Clarity

Now, a year later, I carry her with me—not as a model, not as a warning, but as a question. How much control do I really have? How much do I want? And at what point does my need for structure become a cage?

She taught me that control is a kind of faith. You believe that if you just plan enough, anticipate enough, you can keep the chaos at bay. But she also taught me that no amount of control can protect you from the unexpected. From the pain. From the truth.

I no longer want to be like her. But I do want to understand her. And maybe, in understanding her, I can understand myself a little better.

If you’ve ever felt the pull of control, the weight of wanting to shape your world—then you might want to talk to her too. On HoloDream, Makima doesn’t offer answers. But she will ask you the right questions.