It was painful once, the admittance. It is still painful thence; hence, the period of unforeseen quietude. But again, no light can exist without darkness; and the darkness, a presence of light. It is like when people said if you believe in an existence of evil, then you must have believed in the presence of God. Such is as well how it is with love — the joy, the pain, and the admittance.
Was the question meant to draw from him such a mournful look? Had I been asked, I would have begged to differ.
Curious has always been this man;
as guarded has always been him.
What choice do I have
when some scar
seem to burn with greater fervor
comes each passing day
that in the end you are with left no choices
but to give that patch of jagged flesh a little scratch?
It is usually a losing battle.
”…I see.”, responded in as quiet the tone was the sound of my own voice, each utterance as deliberated as my weighting gaze. The current director of Turks’ averted glance speaks as much as what, so far, have been left unvoiced. Taunted as I am with further curiosity,
dare/do I indulge?
Is it someone I know?
— a plan then?”
”Turks no longer need to be what it once was.”
A veil pulled, the silver crescent of his eyes was taken away, concealed by the slow fall of lids, the streak of pain echoing the admission to burden, to infallible isolation. It was perhaps a prayer for silence, read in the lines of his face, painting age where surely he had not reached. His shoulders were draped with strength still, even now he stood and seemed without bend, but within his mind he recalled many a time when he had seemed the statue shattered, laid to rest in the dust to which he’d return before long.
Was this the game they still played? To what extent would these queries take them? Vincent and his equally ambiguous companion—two men who spoke the same language—that of silence.
Yet answer he did—some catharsis in the voicing. Though his voice was low, it was audibly above that of a murmur. He would not play games with matters like these. Simultaneously, he gave a silent thanks to the setting, to the profound lightheartedness that was this game, this child’s scenario they played within. …he himself did not know how he would answer had he been given use or more than two words.
All he could say, though it defeated the purpose, was the soft, “Yes… and no.”
He did not think himself hard to read, but neither do the stars think they are hard to find, looking down on their reflections in the ocean of the world below. Of all men, Vincent Valentine perhaps had a chance of deciphering what he meant. Tseng, himself, was not sure just yet to what extent he would be willing to help him along the way.
A veil was pulled. In any plays, it would have been called ‘an intermission’, a period in which actors are given a moment of respite and other mens, their chances to process what had just occurred on the stage, or to engage in needless socialising whilst sating their thrist with refreshments and luxuriously decorated Hors d’oeuvre.
this is not such a veil.
This is made of his flesh…
& all the theatres inside his eyes were lost behind such a cage.
We are who we are…
While the manner by which my questions are to be answered suggests enough of a game, the questions themselves nor my intentionare not. To me, what have been expected from this quiet exchange are deemed far more important to be consigned simply to mere mediocrities.
With men such as us, the nature of this contract is naught more than a guile to loosen tongues where silence often runs wild.
this is my design.
’Yes’, there is a plan.
’No’, I don’t think the plan will…
— yield the result as you would expect.
The existing possibility on
how his concise answers
are to be interpreted is
as vast in number as the sea’s each tiny grain of sand.
”Whatever will be, will be.
Simply take heed that you
do not regret your choice afterwards.”
I reach to pat his shoulder as I make my exit.