M A S Q U E R A D E
-Stradivari-
:i:
It always comes back to this point. Not really the start, yet it doesn't belong somewhere in the middle either. But it's not lost. I know that much. Logic tells me the only place left is the end. But I'm sure I've been there before. Otherwise, how did I come back? How can I come back so many times without leaving? It's impossible.
I've never been a fan of irony. I've never been faced with real irony either; as somewhere there will always be a broken chain. Somewhere. Only, most can not find that link. They see what they want to see; and most people don't want to see at all.
I've been though this before. All of it. Revolved it around in my head so many times every inch is scoured. It's like a beach; combed so many times it has lost all of its treasures. Water; spinning round and round, dirty; as one's shoes would stir dust as they danced; warm as it lay stagnant under a light that was not the sun. It always came back to this point.
Though of course, it isn't technically my fault. Nothing ever is, if you placed 'technically' in front of it. Nothing is ever 'technically' my doing. But take that away and I carry the world's sins on my shoulders.
Funny thing. I thought balls were supposed to be on a happy note. As Chopin, he wrote the waltzes. Oh, he's dead. Try Bach then, he wrote the quartets. Oh. He's dead too. Perhaps Scarlatti? No. Totally out of form. At any rate, my compositions were far superior to his. But don't ask me, please. Ask him. Oh. He's dead as well. I beg your pardon.
I did tell you it wasn't technically my fault.
What? Of course I'm not changing the subject. There was no subject. It just came back to a point. The same point. Strange that my feet haven't actually moved at all, yet I have gone and returned. And you hadn't even noticed. I could have been killed. The world could have gone to war. I went, you know, to stop that war.
But it seems that I have made no difference. You never missed me while I was gone. You never cared. No one ever does. Perhaps I should just forget about it and pretend. But I've forgotten too much already. It always comes back to this.
No, I'm sorry. I don't dance.
It really isn't the star. I have not come back to the beginning. The start wasn't like this. I hate using past tense. But if I said 'the past isn't like this', I would be lying. To hell with it. You already think I lie. I can see it in your eyes every time I speak, wondering, analyzing, calculating, concluding. To you, I lie all the time. I supposed that goes for everybody. I'm just someone you can not trust. You wouldn't know though, not now. A Masquerade. I'll save you the deductions shall I? Yes, it was me.
Now everyone has to lie.
No, I am not a hypocrite. But I do want to ask you something. Can you trust anyone else? Or am I unique? Thank you. I do feel so special.
Do you want to know what the start was? No, of course you don't. You prefer your conscience to be untainted don't you? Well, I will pacify your mind. You have no conscience.
Don't look at me like that, you know it's true. That's the whole problem in what would have been a prefect cadence.
Knowledge. You know too much. Yet you know that you are not all knowing. Well, let me tell you what you don't know. You are not perfect.
Oh, you knew that already did you? Then I'll enlighten you about the start, before the beginning. Yes, they are different things. Completely different. Because back then, I was wrong and you were right.
But no matter. You were wrong until the very end after that. It was colour you brought to the lie; complexity, beauty; everything that I wasn't, sent to take my place forever. But that is no matter either. You and I both know that 'forever' only means a long time. And then you defined 'long' and I defined 'time' and ended up with nothing.
Yes. That was just after the beginning. No wonder there was no end.
I'm sorry, though you do look charming. I don't dance.
Of course you are the opposite of everything I am. Contrasting. Isn't that always in music? No, don't tell me the exceptions. I don't want to know. Those exceptions are no doubt in the minority. And I am no where near as privileged. But that's fine. I'm happy where I am, happy without you. It always comes back to this.
No, I am not lying to myself! If there is one person I do not lie to, it is I. I will give myself the exception that no one gives me. I am not a hypocrite, not if that means irony. I have never been a fan.
You just like it because you can find that link when nobody else is able. Well, let me tell you this because I'm sick of smiling.
You break that chain yourself. You shatter it with your own hands and mold it to your own ends like your kind does. Does it give you peace to know there are no more puzzles that you can not decipher? Does it give you power to know that someone's mind is just a book, that somebody's emotions are just words typed on a page, able to be replicated again and again? Does it give you pleasure to be able to read them at you leisure? Are you not sorry? Do you not wish for fresh air at the end of the day, when every morning you must put on that mask and attend that wretched Masquerade? Do you not want to feel sea spray on your face? Do you want to see me smile and know it is a lie even so?
Because I'm not going to waste my life dancing. One night is enough, no matter how grad. It is not a weakness that I must take off my mask. Because it is a pretty one, a bird of azure paradise that does not exist. And it is just that. I do not want to be non-existent. I do not want to become the mask I wear. To become like you. It always comes back to this point.
Go on. Break it. You know you want to.
No, I am not crying. Do you see tears? No. Why would I cry about a fantasy? Why would I do that? Answer me and stop hiding behind those eyes! No. I have not changed. If I have changed, I wouldn't be here. I wouldn't be surrounded by bitter walls, bitter floors and bitter friends. I wouldn't be doing what I do, knowing that it was pointless. I would be far away.
How can you not get tired like this? How can you believe in nothing?
Why can't I?
Don't smirk at me like that. You think it is that quality of your personality I admire? Do you really think I admire the things you know, the things you can patent? Do I admire your intelligence or your wealth?
No, I do not.
You are only human, born to die. Only human, no matter what you look like. Only human, no matter how much History values your existence. Able to be drowned as a kitten could be drowned…No. I do not want to kill you. The water is clear right now, no splashes, no ripples. I want it to stay that way. Colourless, bland, unchanging. I don't need your petals, maple leaves, sunlight-nothing. Well, perhaps some red…I wouldn't mind that terribly.
What do you mean I'm in denial? I have nothing to deny, nothing to hide. Life's beautiful like this, I won't say simple, but it is very beautiful. Shall I describe it for you? I know you have never been there….
There's no need? Well, that's fine too. I suppose I couldn't have shown you much. No videos or even photographs. You see, I forgot my camera. I thought there would be no need for souvenirs as I would be there for the rest of my foreseeable future. I guess that means I'm shortsighted. A pity. You should really visit that life sometime…but then again; your life is too choked up isn't it? I bet you have never heard of a 'holiday'.
Yes, I know you have a large vocabulary. I don't need the definitions of the word. I don't need pretty words that I can not understand. I don't need poetry, prose or songs. Words can not describe everything and there are too many things that would be best to remain unspoken, unwritten and unknown. And even if you knew, it would be better for it to stay unthought-of. It is a wisdom you never quite mastered. I don't think you ever will.
You don't want to hear, you don't want to see. How can you expect to feel? How can you?
How can I?
Autumn leaves. Painted on canvas. You take in the colours; every shade, every tone. You take in the strokes of the paintbrush, the angle which the artist tilted his hand, the water that runs, mingled with the light. Hell, you even carbon-date it, for all the good that will do you.
But you fail to notice the real light reflected from the lake, it's warmth that caresses the willows. You fail to take in its entirety, too absorbed with the details.
Is your world like this? Broken into so many sections of analyzed data, so much mega-pixels, that in the end, they inevitably break apart? Do you see what you are looking at, even as you calculate its mass, danger factor, personality, intelligence, value? When you look at the ocean, do you see the faint line of the horizon, the sweep of her lips as you analyze the distance, the depth graduation of water by its colour? Do you see the shells and foam along the fringe of the sand, the pebbles that your foot brushes past? Do you see your own reflection, rippled and scattered by the waves?
Do you see me? Do you see something as non-existent as me? Because if you don't, look in a mirror. You won't see yourself.
It always comes back to this point. Not really the start, yet not in between the beginning and end. There was not end for me to go to and no start for me to return. It always comes to this.
The problem is; I don't know what this is.
I'm sorry, I don't dance Masquerades.
Do you?
:i:
Author's Notes: (Another) Open ended passage. (Again) I have (a lot of) notes to go with this one that would probably bore you all to death so (again) I'll try to be brief. I'm not sure if you perceived this the same as I did, but this is actually the first oneshot that I've done from (well, one of the PoVs) Holly's point of view. I'll probably come back to edit this one at least once more, but please shed light on who you thought it was intended for-I will be beyond appreciation. Also, criticism is good for my health.
I hope there wasn't too many typos and you liked (?) it.
Please review!