Contemplating Conundrum

There was great reason to his means in all that he did from the significant to the trivial. Everything had purpose and everything had their order. Yes, he would admit to himself as he recounted days long passed, it was merely to have a piece of the past returned to him in lieu of merely shedding all of that away in favor of something frightfully new and begrudgingly refreshing … but ever did he look upon her differently. There was no way he could deny it … and his special appellation that only he was man enough to utter brought him immense comfort in the uniqueness that it brought– the different light that was instantly cast over him and only him in a place that bred clones and copies -- the personification of an idea treating little Evey as the woman that he always knew she was. At that thought, a grin slowly formed beneath the mask, feeling the deep lines and creases of the twisted skin grow taut. Why was it, he asked himself rhetorically, that it was only through him that he ever used the title? Never as anyone else and never as the object of his deepest affections. That name was only reserved for him to use, in this guise, in this form. It's not selfish to think that. Selfish would be the need to feel defensive and heated over such an appellation being haphazardly thrown around as if it meant nothing. Thankfully, that had remained caged within his mind, left with no air to breathe and, therefore, slowly died from recollection all together. He still had a lot to learn and a lot to overcome. They both did.

In matters of the arts, he continued jovially, content with this conversation he was having with his own logic, he needed to step as far back as possible to take in the bigger picture and yet so close to the metaphorical book that the words blurred together into an inky mixture that made no more sense to the shallow of mind and temperament. He was looking at things all wrong and therefore had an ill ambience surrounding his general mood. A rumble hummed from within as he contemplated further in silence. Stepping back allowed him to see with greater clarity and take in the general nuances of the piece and see how right a smidge of wise opinion truly was as well as stepping close to better scrutinize style and execution – always a calculating approach to keep the green eyed monster and its brethren, inferior mediocrity from their ravenous intents. There were so many other things to ponder on, like -- why did he feel the greatest pain that drove in to him so agonizing yet so pleasurable every time he thought of the medium – in written word or song? Why did jealousy stir from its slumber within the locked chambers of his heart every now and then? Did that make him a bad person? No. It made him human, his ever persistent heart reminded. One more thing to kill, V sighed. One more thing to kill …

He turned his musings back down the familiar track of matters greatly concerning his work, his art, this kingdom that he felt an important part of. He mentally shook his head. One could feed a bird enough seeds to keep it full and happy for a life time but did that mean he would get the same in return? Of course not. It was a bird and birds do what they do best – sing. And there it was – the compromise. He had an overwhelming amount of seeds to give and would be greatly content in awed astonishment by the mysterious and unheard impending melodies that would issue forth from its feathery throat.

Puerile … simply … puerile. The word was stapled to his cerebral cortex. He respected words, yes. But "dignity and love do not blend well nor do they continue long together," and within the given medium, it didn't feel right. It tasted too sour to his palette. It was wrong of him to get so defensive. But it was his world for so long, how could he not? Words were like the sea. Nobody could lay claim to it all and hoard buckets of it for themselves. Nonsense. Utter nonsense, V, his mind chastised. He merely needed to look at things from a different angle – a different facet to that seemingly over-studied jewel of everyone's coveted desire. And he saw it, or felt it rather. But yet, if he respected it enough, he would have the strength to keep his distance. V blinked, tilting his head at this forming revelation. A word here, a phrase there … and yet, the artist uses the same tools as the next with which to paint a gallery's worth of exquisite paintings, yet all are different – all are imprinted with a unique insignia by the artist's hand – as distinct and irreplaceable as the identification residing on the tips of their fingers. But he knew well what sea he swam in and it wasn't his own. It was theirs and he would respect them as he respected the consonants and vowels that gave him purpose, but that didn't mean he had to dance their idiotic jig and sing their brazenly loud and out of tune songs. He would keep his dignity in tact, even if the lack of it attacked him on both sides – which it very well had the potential to do. There were always other things to busy ones self with too and the future loomed threateningly on the horizon. There was one thing he felt he had to always keep in mind that would make or break everything – reality is never as romantic as one wishes it was.