Cessation
Izzy Girl IV And he said: "Your life is a contridiction." "... for a minute there, I lost myself, I lost myself, for just a minute there, I lost myself..." "I want answers." You said. And I laughed. Answers from me? Answers from one who is searching himself? If only you knew. If only you could, would, should, did. If you knew the circles I go about with myself. If you knew the arguments, the questions, the decisions broken again and again. If you knew these things you would no longer think I am so powerful. You would no longer think I know everything as if I were born with the mysteries of the universe scrawled on the inside of my brain. I'm not as strong as you think I am. I'm not as in control as you think I am. I'm not as certain as you think I am. I'm not who you think I am. I should be flattered. I should be overjoyed that you come to me, all stern glares and shuddering hands. I should be smug with myself to know that I alone in your mind am the only one whoes opinion is worth anything. I should pace in front of you with my thumb on my chin and my arm folded across my waist as my capes swish and my shoes tap and I "hmm, hmm, hmm" as if in deep thought, only to cry, "Eureka!" as you fall over yourself with gratitude. I should know your answers, Little Wolf. I should know them when you need them. But I do know your answers. They're right here inside of this head of mine. But you see. That's not me. I don't want it to be, so I don't know your answers, although one could say I do. Are you confused? I delight in causing confusion. I dislike being alone in my own ignorance. Such entertainment, wrapping others up in my webs and mazes of deception. They struggle and cry and kick their little feet in protest but only I know they way out. Truth is an ugly, coarse thing. It's a block of wood, a piece of horsehide. It's rough to the touch and not particularily aesthetically pleasing. Yes. Lies are much more beautiful with their rich textures and layers. Like shards of broken glass, all piled upon each other until the sunlight streaming through is broken into little points of scattered light. The effect has always reminded me of butterfly wings. Butterfly wings and icicles. Pretty, breakable things. Lies are much more suited to you, I realize, not suddenly, but over a moment of meditation. Do not blame me for lying to you. You stand there, leaning nochalantly against the rim of the building's edge, staring past me into the night. The sky has been made starless by the cities light, but maybe you don't notice. You stare at the sky as if there is something profound and truly breathtaking there. I turn my gaze upwards, but the only breathtaking sight I can see is the ripple of your hair in the breeze, the way your tug on the cuffs of your kimono with nervous hands and the effradescent glaze of your cola-colored eyes, so like the bubbling champagne rushing to escape the delicate neck of the bottle. I was very young when I had my first sip of champagne. But then again, I wasn't. I was never young, was I? I was younger than you. When I first met you, there was an air about you. A sparkle in your eye that spoke of inexpirience. That's how young I was, for age is not a matter of years, but a matter of how much of that childish innocence is left in your eyes. "To be a good magician, you must learn how to entertain company." I nodded. "To be a good host, you must learn about some of the finer things in life. Such as wine." I nodded again. "But you're a little young for that yet. Here, pour yourself a glass of this... carefully, young master! Okay, now grip the thin part of the glass in your left hand, no, not rough. Hold it as if you're afraid it will break. Yes, that's right. Now sip. Don't gulp, just a little sip." There was a third nod and I carefully brought the glass to my lips. The drink smelled funny, and I wrinkled my nose in distrust as the thin odor of alcohol wound it's way into my nostrils. I held it there until the smell became almost appeasing, then allowed a drop to touch my tounge. It seemed harmless enough, so I swiftly downed the rest of it. It burned on the way down my throat and I had the fleeting thought that perhaps, perhaps, I had been poisoned. I coughed and shouted out that I was choking, but my benefactor only laughed. "Master Reed." He said, "You get used to it." And indeed, after the burning stopped and my stomach settled I wasted no time in grabbing the bottle again and vigorously pouring myself another helping. So you see these aren't my memories. I have no right to what's not mine. Forgive me for lying to you, but it's what I must do. Of course I have it here in my head somewhere. What really happened to the mistress. Why the cards are the way theya re. What should be done about the situation. But my life is a contradiction. No straight answer from this mouth will ever be as truthful as you want it to be. My very tounge was created for the purpose of twisting words with skillful artistry as to make them sound true. The only solution is not to speak at all. "I want answers." And still I will laugh. The answers aren't always that simple. I, myself, have an important decision to make. It's not so much a decision anymore as a necessary measure, taken too late. I can taste the steel of the knife already, Xiao Lang. I can feel it cutting into my flesh. Is this what it feels like to decide to die? You would know, wouldn't you? Did you not decide to die long ago? I can see the blood. It's red, but once again, it only reminds me of you. The iridescent glow your eyes take on when you're enraged. Or perhaps impassioned. I wonder, if I were to kiss you, would your eyes glow for me? Effradescent. Iridescent. How insulted would you be if I told you your eyes were also phosphorescent, luminescent and flourescent, even if it were not true? Yours are amazing eyes. When you are angry, your eyes are red. Like the blood in my mind. Drip. Drip. It's cold here and the end is drawing near, but all you want are answers. Drip. Drip. On his part, you know who I mean, all her has to say about it is: I counted too carefully for this. It all falls apart in the end.
Syaoran shivered against the chill in the night air as he hugged the robes of his kimono closer. Eyeing Eriol warily the entire time, of course. He was still not one to be trusted, even after everything. Or maybe, especially after everything. "I want answers." He was shocked to see that the mage eyed him in return with equal wariness, though for obviously different reasons. "I have none." Syaoran snorted, "I'm so sure you don't." Eriol spread his hands apologetically, "I have no explaination, Xiao Lang. No way to justify myself this time. You must take my word for it." Syaoran adjusted his gaze to an expression of perfect skepticism, lowering one eyebrow while he raised the other. Eriol sighed and removed his billowing hat, running a hand through his navy hair, "What is it you wish to know?" "The truth about Sakura's death!" Syaoran gasped, a tad too eagerly. He blushed, embarassed, and focused his eyes on the dark night sky. The black sky was starless, thanks to the demanding city lights, even well into the early hours of morning. There were always stars at home. Thinking of them now reminded him of Sakura. He thought idly f the night they had laid on the balcony, heads so close that they barely had to whisper to be heard, and counted the stars in the sky. Sakura has been so glad just to see them. When they ran out of stars to count, the began tracing the imaginary lines in between them, and made up stories about the pictures they drew there. They giggled like drunkards and didn't bother to care that they were thirteen and too old for such behavior. There is a quality about young love that causes one to laugh and blush and throw away all false pretenses of maturity. Much the opposite of it's deceptive, older cousin, teenage love, that causes adolescent lovers to grow up far too quickly and deny some of their more alluring, but none-the-less childish, tendancies. Syaoran noticed that Eriol too was gazing at the sky and wondered briefly what he saw there. Surely he saw the stars. He had lived so long that perhaps the stars were inconsiquential to him, but he MUST see them. "Xiao Lang. I am sorry, but there is nothing more to the Mistress's death than what I have already told you." Syaoran shot Eriol a glare so quickly that the blue-haired boy flinched. That was not right. Eriol Hiiragizawa did not flinch. Eriol Hiiragizawa also did not wear the sorry, guilt-ridden expression that was being directed towards Syaoran at that moment. It's a lie. Syaoran noted dumbly, but then he considered. I think that I am going insane. The chinese boy shook his head regretfully. The lines were blurring. The black was turning to white and the white to black and both had become a sickly sort of gray. Eriol was right. There would be no answers. At least not until he found the proper place to look.
Izzy Girl IV And he said: "Your life is a contridiction." "... for a minute there, I lost myself, I lost myself, for just a minute there, I lost myself..." "I want answers." You said. And I laughed. Answers from me? Answers from one who is searching himself? If only you knew. If only you could, would, should, did. If you knew the circles I go about with myself. If you knew the arguments, the questions, the decisions broken again and again. If you knew these things you would no longer think I am so powerful. You would no longer think I know everything as if I were born with the mysteries of the universe scrawled on the inside of my brain. I'm not as strong as you think I am. I'm not as in control as you think I am. I'm not as certain as you think I am. I'm not who you think I am. I should be flattered. I should be overjoyed that you come to me, all stern glares and shuddering hands. I should be smug with myself to know that I alone in your mind am the only one whoes opinion is worth anything. I should pace in front of you with my thumb on my chin and my arm folded across my waist as my capes swish and my shoes tap and I "hmm, hmm, hmm" as if in deep thought, only to cry, "Eureka!" as you fall over yourself with gratitude. I should know your answers, Little Wolf. I should know them when you need them. But I do know your answers. They're right here inside of this head of mine. But you see. That's not me. I don't want it to be, so I don't know your answers, although one could say I do. Are you confused? I delight in causing confusion. I dislike being alone in my own ignorance. Such entertainment, wrapping others up in my webs and mazes of deception. They struggle and cry and kick their little feet in protest but only I know they way out. Truth is an ugly, coarse thing. It's a block of wood, a piece of horsehide. It's rough to the touch and not particularily aesthetically pleasing. Yes. Lies are much more beautiful with their rich textures and layers. Like shards of broken glass, all piled upon each other until the sunlight streaming through is broken into little points of scattered light. The effect has always reminded me of butterfly wings. Butterfly wings and icicles. Pretty, breakable things. Lies are much more suited to you, I realize, not suddenly, but over a moment of meditation. Do not blame me for lying to you. You stand there, leaning nochalantly against the rim of the building's edge, staring past me into the night. The sky has been made starless by the cities light, but maybe you don't notice. You stare at the sky as if there is something profound and truly breathtaking there. I turn my gaze upwards, but the only breathtaking sight I can see is the ripple of your hair in the breeze, the way your tug on the cuffs of your kimono with nervous hands and the effradescent glaze of your cola-colored eyes, so like the bubbling champagne rushing to escape the delicate neck of the bottle. I was very young when I had my first sip of champagne. But then again, I wasn't. I was never young, was I? I was younger than you. When I first met you, there was an air about you. A sparkle in your eye that spoke of inexpirience. That's how young I was, for age is not a matter of years, but a matter of how much of that childish innocence is left in your eyes. "To be a good magician, you must learn how to entertain company." I nodded. "To be a good host, you must learn about some of the finer things in life. Such as wine." I nodded again. "But you're a little young for that yet. Here, pour yourself a glass of this... carefully, young master! Okay, now grip the thin part of the glass in your left hand, no, not rough. Hold it as if you're afraid it will break. Yes, that's right. Now sip. Don't gulp, just a little sip." There was a third nod and I carefully brought the glass to my lips. The drink smelled funny, and I wrinkled my nose in distrust as the thin odor of alcohol wound it's way into my nostrils. I held it there until the smell became almost appeasing, then allowed a drop to touch my tounge. It seemed harmless enough, so I swiftly downed the rest of it. It burned on the way down my throat and I had the fleeting thought that perhaps, perhaps, I had been poisoned. I coughed and shouted out that I was choking, but my benefactor only laughed. "Master Reed." He said, "You get used to it." And indeed, after the burning stopped and my stomach settled I wasted no time in grabbing the bottle again and vigorously pouring myself another helping. So you see these aren't my memories. I have no right to what's not mine. Forgive me for lying to you, but it's what I must do. Of course I have it here in my head somewhere. What really happened to the mistress. Why the cards are the way theya re. What should be done about the situation. But my life is a contradiction. No straight answer from this mouth will ever be as truthful as you want it to be. My very tounge was created for the purpose of twisting words with skillful artistry as to make them sound true. The only solution is not to speak at all. "I want answers." And still I will laugh. The answers aren't always that simple. I, myself, have an important decision to make. It's not so much a decision anymore as a necessary measure, taken too late. I can taste the steel of the knife already, Xiao Lang. I can feel it cutting into my flesh. Is this what it feels like to decide to die? You would know, wouldn't you? Did you not decide to die long ago? I can see the blood. It's red, but once again, it only reminds me of you. The iridescent glow your eyes take on when you're enraged. Or perhaps impassioned. I wonder, if I were to kiss you, would your eyes glow for me? Effradescent. Iridescent. How insulted would you be if I told you your eyes were also phosphorescent, luminescent and flourescent, even if it were not true? Yours are amazing eyes. When you are angry, your eyes are red. Like the blood in my mind. Drip. Drip. It's cold here and the end is drawing near, but all you want are answers. Drip. Drip. On his part, you know who I mean, all her has to say about it is: I counted too carefully for this. It all falls apart in the end.
Syaoran shivered against the chill in the night air as he hugged the robes of his kimono closer. Eyeing Eriol warily the entire time, of course. He was still not one to be trusted, even after everything. Or maybe, especially after everything. "I want answers." He was shocked to see that the mage eyed him in return with equal wariness, though for obviously different reasons. "I have none." Syaoran snorted, "I'm so sure you don't." Eriol spread his hands apologetically, "I have no explaination, Xiao Lang. No way to justify myself this time. You must take my word for it." Syaoran adjusted his gaze to an expression of perfect skepticism, lowering one eyebrow while he raised the other. Eriol sighed and removed his billowing hat, running a hand through his navy hair, "What is it you wish to know?" "The truth about Sakura's death!" Syaoran gasped, a tad too eagerly. He blushed, embarassed, and focused his eyes on the dark night sky. The black sky was starless, thanks to the demanding city lights, even well into the early hours of morning. There were always stars at home. Thinking of them now reminded him of Sakura. He thought idly f the night they had laid on the balcony, heads so close that they barely had to whisper to be heard, and counted the stars in the sky. Sakura has been so glad just to see them. When they ran out of stars to count, the began tracing the imaginary lines in between them, and made up stories about the pictures they drew there. They giggled like drunkards and didn't bother to care that they were thirteen and too old for such behavior. There is a quality about young love that causes one to laugh and blush and throw away all false pretenses of maturity. Much the opposite of it's deceptive, older cousin, teenage love, that causes adolescent lovers to grow up far too quickly and deny some of their more alluring, but none-the-less childish, tendancies. Syaoran noticed that Eriol too was gazing at the sky and wondered briefly what he saw there. Surely he saw the stars. He had lived so long that perhaps the stars were inconsiquential to him, but he MUST see them. "Xiao Lang. I am sorry, but there is nothing more to the Mistress's death than what I have already told you." Syaoran shot Eriol a glare so quickly that the blue-haired boy flinched. That was not right. Eriol Hiiragizawa did not flinch. Eriol Hiiragizawa also did not wear the sorry, guilt-ridden expression that was being directed towards Syaoran at that moment. It's a lie. Syaoran noted dumbly, but then he considered. I think that I am going insane. The chinese boy shook his head regretfully. The lines were blurring. The black was turning to white and the white to black and both had become a sickly sort of gray. Eriol was right. There would be no answers. At least not until he found the proper place to look.