The
S I L E N C E
and the
S T O R M
- Dim Aldebaran -
He was silent.
It wasn't just the silence of the shy, where one would open up word by word like the unfurling petals on a rose, where everyone would look at his marvelous inner light and feel glad that he had blossomed so beautifully, since beauty was so pure in spirit.
He was silent.
It wasn't a literal quiet, not all the time. He had a little clique of fellow nerds that crowded round him like fangirls, and he would talk to them and they would take in every word without even noticing how he did not ever look at them. He had opinions he would voice with that crackling wit of his in Philosophy; he had a fondness for Nietzsche during Complex Analysis, read page by page as the hour stretched on by.
But he was still silent.
She had noticed this, finally. It had taken so long, so long; how long had they shared classes, how long had they gone to the same college?
He was silent.
He never spoke of personal affairs. He would go to the occasional party, 'experiment' in a matter even genii could not escape; but she was always there, watching him from beneath lidded eyes. It was always so impersonal for him, keeping the matters at armslength. He never even remembered their names.
He was silent.
But the silence wasn't perfect—he spoke but did not listen, he watched but did not care, he fucked but did not love—all were so glaringly silent.
He… was silent.
No one guessed. He never let anyone get past his mask—they never even guessed at its existene! He wore a mask? Pah—his mask was flawed, and masks were employed merely to put on a display of perfection. God, they were so stupid, so uncaring, so damn absorbed in their self-absorption—
He was silent
It… it was if he had no real emotions. Like others'. Like hers. Or maybe, whatever it was he felt, it was beyond emotions. Transcended them. Like bloody Buddha—but that triggered those whirling tangential thoughts, for now she wondered where it was he meditated, for that would be wonderful time to confront him, no, talk, flirt, kiss, fuck—but it would only be the mask that would respond, that beautiful, flawed mask.
He was silent.
No words. No, just no real words. He had words for his little fanclub, just enough to distract them. They never looked beyond the sophisticated, superintelligent exterior since that wasn't what they needed or even wanted. They wanted the mask, in the way a baby wanted a lollipop. It was happy coincidence that the passerby had one to spare. They wanted perfection; and they received it in this new idol.
He was silent.
How did she know this? Was she just making this all up in her head, to have an excuse to talk to this enigma who could smile as politically as he could frown? But—No, I wouldn't do that, he really needs me, deep inside, where he's lost and crying like a rain cloud in summer. And then—See, of course, you're rationalizing infatuation. He was criminal, he was genius, and above all he was human: was he manipulating her with those empty stares and big blue eyes, was she falling for a Faust?
And, yet, the possibility… excited her
He was silent through it all.
He wore it like a mirrored cloak, containing that quixotic soul that lay within so it was reflected to infinity within himself so he was greater than all else. On the outside, all people saw were themselves, mere reflections of their own Narcissist qualities. Did he scream beneath the mirror, did he cry out and hear only echoes? Ah, the mask and mirror, what a brilliant pair for fooling to world—
He was too silent:
Maybe he's transparent, she would muse. Nothing there: clear, crystal clear, a crystal figurine. She could see six billion people twisted and warped within him, six billion crystal statues frozen in their laughter and smiles and emptiness and happiness—and the silence was the silence of herself.
He was silent.
It was the silence of the stars, the silence of a black hole: it was something to theorize about with white coats and long lists and big budgets, something most people would muse about in traffic jams and waiting lines, something they didn't really care about much—they saw the mirror, the unearthly beauty of the surrounding stars and ignored the darkness in the heart of them all. A power that would devour the light and never let it go.
He was silent.
And no one cared but her.
s i l e n c e
Her was a black hole. An it!
He was silent. But any more silent than herself?
:i:
894 words. AFOFC.