Plamen Apostal, District 4 [DONE]
Jun 1, 2014 22:11:28 GMT -5
Post by Meghan on Jun 1, 2014 22:11:28 GMT -5
Nihilism makes people shiver. There was always a difference between the cool prose of those who merely do not know, and the fluid motions of those who are fighting for something better. There has always been a contrast between the two sides of our crew. The debate of whether or not there is meaning in ones life has been our battle since day one. Some of our number claimed that the very existence of the Games proved that there was no gods and no purpose to the paths we walked. It was obvious in their performance. They had no hope and they conveyed their cynicism through splattered movement, dusting the pavement beneath their feet without concern. Yet their doubt was obvious to our watchful eyes. It was impossible to act without a sense of self-worth. Otherwise you are merely nothing, and your only purpose is to sit and wait. Wait for inevitable death. Those without a cause were always the quickest to fall. You could see it in them: their very bodies cried for help as they frantically searched for the reason behind tearful eyes and broken hearts.
"Where do your emotions come from?" I would sometimes ask them, my voice deep for my sixteen years. I would then turn idly on my heel in preparation for the show to come. At once our movements struck the same message. We faced each other and I shifted my weight forward. My arms, muscular from ever-constant motion, stretch towards the heavens. "Where does any of this come from?"
We our like cedars, tall and equal on the horizon. Despite our usual quarreling, we are one here. Nobody echoed my curious question. Nor did they respond to it, despite the fact that I proposed it before the air became blurred with passion. They were too far gone. At that moment we all raised our feet in unison. I lowered my eyes from the sky and examined them almost mockingly. "No answer? Guess that means I'm correct, thennnn." My voice dragged the n out, indicating my amusement. They were always too prideful to reply in a moment like this. It would mean losing focus. Out here, losing such sense would mean utter failure.
My derisive devices faded as the moment struck our fancy. Suddenly the group was flying, soaring, tumbling through the air as if we were are all made of the same essence and operated from the same mind. We became the honeybees, flocking together due to our one true queen: dance.
Our party always gathered in the evening. The only requirements being soul, emotion, and the desire to learn. Our movement had never been for our own delight (yet it brought us much pleasure), but it quickly became a universal symbol of conformity. Our masters, whether chosen or not, told us we had to learn to fight their demons. It was payment for history, they said. Not our fault, but we could not help the world we were born into. We agreed to play along, yet we refused to see their ways as adequate. It was simply not enough to fight in the sterile rooms of their lifeless center if you truly wanted to survive. If we wanted to take flight, to overtake the forces they set against you, we quickly learned that we needed not only method, but madness.
Our survival meant the fire that ran through our bones. Their training became only supplemental to our mission.
If it ever came down to it and one of our number was thrown away to the final prison, our strength would be proved through our passion. They had the proper training, but we had the fervor behind the entire operation. Our very joy in the heart of the battle would bring in the support. They would only suffer at our hands.
You can't have danger without the flame. You can't succeed without the motivation.
We are the motivation. I am the motivation.
---
My journey to this point was a simple one. My twin sister and I had been forced into training, just like the other kids in our class. Yet they pursued the art of murder with hesitation.
We knew we were different the minute we stepped into that training center. The weapons in our hands sparked something buried deep within us. For Lenalia, it was glory. She reveled in their approval, and sought meaning from their reverence. For me, Plamen, I took in meaning. Purpose. It was for this reason that the God of the Earth (and I knew there surely had to be one. What else would explain my natural grace, and intelligent, mustard eyes?) placed me on the planet. I was meant to display his power through my own strength. The wicked were shown through their weakness. I was his mouthpiece of justice.
We grew into our roles quickly. Lenalia singing praises for herself, and me showering glory to my Father. I did not know much of the being I worshiped, only that he was real. I echoed my devotion on my body. Every scar I collected was praise. Every tattoo burnt on my body showed Him my enthusiasm.
They called me delusional. I proved them misguided as I overwhelmed them in my weakness. All they had to depend on was themselves... my power came from above.
Every victory furthered proved my point.
The fragility of my self-worshiping sister only moved my suggestion towards validity. As she crumbled, I grew stronger. As she fell, I skyrocketed.
My vigor blossomed. My limbs grew stronger day by day. My feet became more nimble, and my expression became more open. I lengthened in every area except for my face. Every day it seemed to become more scrunched. I was told I had a flat-expression. It was not attractive, but the skillful scurry of my feet overweighed my pug-like features.
Over the years, my pride grew. I thought myself to be the very representation of His purpose. My voice grew quick to debate, and my feet unafraid. They called me ignorant, but I only fought harder for my cause.
My sister and I formed the crew fairly young, in order to settle our fight once and for all. She stood on the opposite end of the spectrum, believing herself to be the only purpose for this world. She grew more and more selfish with each day. Yet on the pavement in a less-occupied part of the district, we agreed. Our dance became our bonding, and it was the only thing we could agree on.
Perhaps one day we will part ways, and declare our quarrel irreconcilable. But for today, at least, we would come together in the pale moonlight asphalt.
Today we would dance.
"Where do your emotions come from?" I would sometimes ask them, my voice deep for my sixteen years. I would then turn idly on my heel in preparation for the show to come. At once our movements struck the same message. We faced each other and I shifted my weight forward. My arms, muscular from ever-constant motion, stretch towards the heavens. "Where does any of this come from?"
We our like cedars, tall and equal on the horizon. Despite our usual quarreling, we are one here. Nobody echoed my curious question. Nor did they respond to it, despite the fact that I proposed it before the air became blurred with passion. They were too far gone. At that moment we all raised our feet in unison. I lowered my eyes from the sky and examined them almost mockingly. "No answer? Guess that means I'm correct, thennnn." My voice dragged the n out, indicating my amusement. They were always too prideful to reply in a moment like this. It would mean losing focus. Out here, losing such sense would mean utter failure.
My derisive devices faded as the moment struck our fancy. Suddenly the group was flying, soaring, tumbling through the air as if we were are all made of the same essence and operated from the same mind. We became the honeybees, flocking together due to our one true queen: dance.
Our party always gathered in the evening. The only requirements being soul, emotion, and the desire to learn. Our movement had never been for our own delight (yet it brought us much pleasure), but it quickly became a universal symbol of conformity. Our masters, whether chosen or not, told us we had to learn to fight their demons. It was payment for history, they said. Not our fault, but we could not help the world we were born into. We agreed to play along, yet we refused to see their ways as adequate. It was simply not enough to fight in the sterile rooms of their lifeless center if you truly wanted to survive. If we wanted to take flight, to overtake the forces they set against you, we quickly learned that we needed not only method, but madness.
Our survival meant the fire that ran through our bones. Their training became only supplemental to our mission.
If it ever came down to it and one of our number was thrown away to the final prison, our strength would be proved through our passion. They had the proper training, but we had the fervor behind the entire operation. Our very joy in the heart of the battle would bring in the support. They would only suffer at our hands.
You can't have danger without the flame. You can't succeed without the motivation.
We are the motivation. I am the motivation.
---
My journey to this point was a simple one. My twin sister and I had been forced into training, just like the other kids in our class. Yet they pursued the art of murder with hesitation.
We knew we were different the minute we stepped into that training center. The weapons in our hands sparked something buried deep within us. For Lenalia, it was glory. She reveled in their approval, and sought meaning from their reverence. For me, Plamen, I took in meaning. Purpose. It was for this reason that the God of the Earth (and I knew there surely had to be one. What else would explain my natural grace, and intelligent, mustard eyes?) placed me on the planet. I was meant to display his power through my own strength. The wicked were shown through their weakness. I was his mouthpiece of justice.
We grew into our roles quickly. Lenalia singing praises for herself, and me showering glory to my Father. I did not know much of the being I worshiped, only that he was real. I echoed my devotion on my body. Every scar I collected was praise. Every tattoo burnt on my body showed Him my enthusiasm.
They called me delusional. I proved them misguided as I overwhelmed them in my weakness. All they had to depend on was themselves... my power came from above.
Every victory furthered proved my point.
The fragility of my self-worshiping sister only moved my suggestion towards validity. As she crumbled, I grew stronger. As she fell, I skyrocketed.
My vigor blossomed. My limbs grew stronger day by day. My feet became more nimble, and my expression became more open. I lengthened in every area except for my face. Every day it seemed to become more scrunched. I was told I had a flat-expression. It was not attractive, but the skillful scurry of my feet overweighed my pug-like features.
Over the years, my pride grew. I thought myself to be the very representation of His purpose. My voice grew quick to debate, and my feet unafraid. They called me ignorant, but I only fought harder for my cause.
My sister and I formed the crew fairly young, in order to settle our fight once and for all. She stood on the opposite end of the spectrum, believing herself to be the only purpose for this world. She grew more and more selfish with each day. Yet on the pavement in a less-occupied part of the district, we agreed. Our dance became our bonding, and it was the only thing we could agree on.
Perhaps one day we will part ways, and declare our quarrel irreconcilable. But for today, at least, we would come together in the pale moonlight asphalt.
Today we would dance.
oDair
