Nkiru Gestalt|{FINISHED}|D11
Jul 13, 2011 15:56:47 GMT -5
Post by Cel on Jul 13, 2011 15:56:47 GMT -5
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Anyways, back to my hair. I told you it was bleached blonde, right? Yes? Okay. Well, then did I tell you that it isn't actually bleached? No? Alright, from there, then. So, I don't actually bleach it. I tried it once. Didn't turn out so well. Ended up a nice strawberry color. Yeah... not doing that again. Like ever. Anyways, moving downwards. What should I tell you about next? My broken nose, or my blue eyes? Well, the eyes are next on my notes, but hey, rules exist to be broken. I can tell you about them later. So yeah. My nose has been broken about... oh... five times? That sounds about right. The amusing thing about that is that I've broken it so much that, at this point, I can't actually smell any more. That, you could say, is a bit of a drag. While I'm on the topic of senses, I suppose I should mention that I'm synesthetic. But more on that later. Then again, that has to do with my eyes. So maybe, I'll cover that here. Sure. Why not. We got all day. Or at least a couple of hours, I suppose.
Anyways, my particular brand of synesthesia is know as sound-color synesthesia. Basically, that means that music, and sounds in general, look something like... explosions? No, there used to be a word for them... Ah, here it is. Fireworks. Sparks in every direction, dancing in the sky. Certain pitches look like colors to me, and if I'm listening to somebody talk, or listening to music... and close my eyes... I can see... the colors in my head. Don't worry. It isn't like I'm insane or anything like that. It is kind of cool, though. That's probably why I recognize people so easily by their voice. Some people's voices are ugly, though. I try to keep talking to them to a minimum. It may come off as rude, but the wrong voice can give me a headache for a week.
Well, back to my eyes. My eyes. I suppose that the best way to describe them would be a bright blue. They can run the gamut from hard to puppy eyes, depending on how I'm feeling at the time. Sometimes they might be slits, sometimes, wide open. My eyebrows are the same color as my hair. Anyways, I suppose we should move down. My mouth can be next.
Alright. I don't have much of a mustache, or a beard. The closest I get to one is about a two o'clock shadow. Screw five o'clock. I like my two o'clock shadow. It works for me. My mouth is a bit of a hard line. Don't worry. If you want to kiss it, I'm extra luscious in that department. Heh. Not really. Besides, I wouldn't kiss you if... well, we can go into that later. If you saw me with my brothers, it would probably be laughing. Anywhere else, it's probably just in it's typical "hard line" mode. You would think that would make me unappealing to most people, but no. For some reason, people like to get near me. I'm a firm believer in personal space. Well, unless it's... Never mind. I said we'd get to this later, and I keep my word. You can wait. Really. Just a few more paragraphs.
So now, we can get to the rest of my body. Well, more accurately, the next thing is my torso. So, like always, we start from the top. My shoulders, in this case. My shoulders are typical male shoulders. They're fairly broad, but not obscenely so. They give me a distinctly masculine look, and form that perfect (for a guy) triangular shape, with my waist. Moving down, if you took off my shirt (and I shudder at the thought) you would find a well sculpted body. My pecs, my abs, they all are perfectly segmented and beautifully formed. The only real defect here is a foot-and-a-half long gash of a scar, running from my my left breast around to my right hip. It severely scars that area of my body, being the knotted, twisting beast that it is. Really, that's only my fault, though. Improper care, and all that. One thing I'm not is a medical doctor. I'll go into more detail on how I got that a bit later.
Well, we've covered my torso, so I'll tell you about my arms. Basically, I take quite a bit of pride in them. They are almost as well sculpted as my chest, and lack the scar that mars my chest. Plus, they have tattoos. They're badass, if a bit simple. They're tribal style, though amateurish, I suppose. Still, who doesn't think that black flames look awesome? I'll tell you. Nobody.
My hands, being connected to my arms, are next. My hands are... large for my body, and quite rough. They also have callouses on them, from wielding the tools of my trade. Hell, who doesn't have callouses in District Eleven? Anybody that does an honest days work does, I'll tell you. Oh, I also have a small wooden ring on my left hand. Carved it myself. Made of a piece of wood I took from a dead apple tree.. Technically, probably illegal. But it made a pretty ring, and my brothers would never tell anybody about it's origins.
Anyways, since we've already covered the only interesting and child-appropriate feature around my waist, I think we can move down to my legs, which are less interesting, but still doubtlessly an integral part of my body. My legs are almost as well sculpted as my arms, though they don't have the tattoos. Sadness. Trust me, I'd have them tattooed up in a second if it were my choice. Unfortunately, the girl that gave me my tattoos died a few years back. Damn shame, really. She had some talent. I'll go into how I ended up hanging with her and getting my tattoos a bit later.
I suppose we should also cover my clothing, while I'm telling you how I look. Like most people in District Eleven, my clothes are cobbled together from hand-me-downs and donations ("to those poor folks in District Eleven, living in sheds"). Ultimately, however, I typically end up in some form of pants, as trying to work a field in shorts is practically an open invitation to insects for a feast, and no shirt, as after a couple of minutes under the blistering sun of District Eleven, it'll just be a hindrance anyways. Additionally, I also typically a wide-brimmed straw hat that was woven for me by my little sister [subject to change]. When I'm not working, my clothing tends to be lightweight garments and no hat.
So what do we have left? Ah. I should probably give you some basic measurements, shouldn't I? Well, I'm about 5'9". Not too tall, not too short. A little embarrassing that Castiel is taller that I am, though. Kid must be on something, springing up like a weed like he did. Heh. Anyways, I'm about 144lbs. That's about 64 kilos, for those of you who don't like my measurements. So yeah, I guess that wraps it up. I think I'll tell you about my personality next. Trust me, it's a lot more interesting.
I'm not a criminal, not a role model
Not a born leader, I'm a tough act to follow[/i]
Well, now that we've covered [/color]my appearance, I suppose we can move on to my personality. I suppose you've already had a nice whiff of that, though. Whatever. I know you love the scent. Heh. Well, this section will be organized differently than the previous section, and from the next section. Both of those can be organized linearly. My personality, however, isn't so simple. There are so many facets, so many nuances, that to organize it linearly would be a shame. Plus, the only way of doing it linearly would be something lame, like organizing it alphabetically. Hmm... Whatever, I'll start with some of my more prominent traits, and go from there, alright?
Mkay. The first thing you've probably noticed about me is something I mentioned earlier, that is, my personal authenticity. I suppose it's something I'm proud of, really. It's something that I strive for, and therefore, it helps to define me. I suppose the reasons for it are quite varied. Really, though, I think it's because I believe, at my core, that if you can't be honest with yourself, you can't expect anyone else to be honest with you. I suppose that's a bit idealistic of me, but I suppose that that is actually a pretty good descriptor for me, I suppose. In fact, I kind of like it. It has "ideal" in it, and that is a word that applies quite well to me.
A huge part of my life is the ideal that everything is choices, after all. I suppose that that barely counts as an ideal, but never the less, it is something that I hold to be true. Choices are a big part of who we are. My choices, minor and major, go a far ways in defining my personality. They go a far ways in defining me. I suppose it comes down to this: you candefine your choices, or your choices can define you. I intend to follow the former. To do otherwise wouldn't be me. I suppose you could take it to the extreme of principal: "A man chooses, a slave obeys." I intend to be my own man. I intend to define my own choices, to forge my own path. I suppose that's what being an idealist means, right?
Anyways, another word I've heard thrown around to describe me is vivacious. I typically don't like other people saying what they think I am, but in this case, I think they might be on to something. When I'm around people, it's true, I suppose. I certainly use a lot of hand movements for communication, and when I'm talking, emotions come easily. Smiling, cajoling, and generally being expressive of enjoyment all come easily to me when I'm in conversation. It's like giving a fish water to swim in. You could say that I'm a bit of a social butterfly. People just come easily to me, their motivations, their goals. I like talking to people, and people like talking to me, I think. It's just a delicious feeling, talking, and especially having other people listen. The power over someone's opinion is something that I don't wield lightly, but I use it, never the less. I suppose it's just a natural thing, though it may have to do with growing up with Marshelder. He knows people even better than I do. Some of it probably rubbed off along the way. And anyways, I've always considered it to just be part of my connection to that social undercurrent, what I like to call "the human experience."
Another thing, going off of that vivacity, is my aptitude for leadership., though it hasn't come easy. I don't think it comes easy to anyone, really. Oh, it does to the heroes in the books, and the dauntless men on the silver screen, but in reality, it's hard. Like really hard. My experience is hard won in that area, to be sure. In fact, most of my progress is a result of my... scintillating conversational skills. I've always been able to read peoples motives, but reacting, and manipulating those motives is so much more difficult. I suppose it's a bit cold-hearted of me to do so, but really, if you let yourself be an open book, you can't blame anyone who reads it for using the information they get. Anyways, it isn't like I ever try to hurt other people, or even get other people to hurt each other. No, I try to stay strictly to improving other people. Hurting another person, or taking another life, is just abhorrent to me. It's a betrayal that I never intend to commit.
I suppose another thing that could surely be mentioned, although I did speak of it a bit earlier, in my synesthesia. Now, however, I'll focus more on how it colors my interactions with other people. The main way, I may have mentioned, is through the colors people's voices make me see. Sometimes, they can be nice tints and shades of red, orange, or blue. Sometimes, however, people's voices can remind me of vomit, or urine. It isn't really a reflection on someone's character what color they are, but rather a reflection of how pitch-perfect their voice is. A smooth tenor is a deep red, but an off key growl might be puce. Unfortunately, this has a tendency to color my relationships. Being around a pleasant red is clearly more pleasant than talking to a rotting tomato, or a moldy sock. The synesthesia has a bit of a synergistic affect with a heightened sense of color I possess. Actually, it isn't really a heightened sense, but rather a sensitivity. Something that I've found out over the years is that, shockingly, most people don't get sick when they hear a shrill yell, or a rasping voice. Go figure. Who knew?
Anyways, I suppose another thing that I should mention, sort of relating to vivacity in that it comes from other people's perception of me, is that some people seen to think that I'm "wise." I have to say, however, that I have absolutely no idea what they mean by this. I suppose that this primarily stems from my belief that wisdom extends as an out-shoot of experience which, I'll be woefully honest, is something that I am well aware that I lack. Then again, I suppose that that is part of what some people call "wisdom;" the ability to recognize that you do not and cannot know everything. Really, then, I suppose that my so-called "wisdom" is really just the result of me thinking for myself, and realizing that, while I'd love to know what will happen to me throughout my life, all I can really do is just take it as it comes, and try to make the best out of what happens.
That leads me to another facet, which is my world weariness. This isn't really something that I've acquired over the years, but rather a natural outcome of my observance of my own living conditions. I know what evils people are capable of, but I also have observed, time and again, the small kindnesses that people show each other. I suppose that that should give me a small measure of hope, but sometimes I just can't get the Peacekeepers' actions out of my head. Beating innocents, sometimes sending them to their deaths, for small things. An apple here, a couple grapes there. The small things people do to feed their families. And yet, there isn't a Peacekeeper that would let a single grape through, if observed. Despite the resilience of the people of District Eleven, I can't help wondering whether such authoritarianism is an abomination of human nature... or a part of it.
Despite that, however, I do tend to believe in the better part of human nature. I suppose it may be naive of me, but I just seem to prefer to think that people will do the right thing, you know? It just lets me sleep better, thinking that there is --are people out there who are better than I am. Don't get me wrong, it's not like I'm a horrible person, by any measure. But I'm also certainly no saint. I've done my share of work, dished out my share of evil. Then again, it isn't as if you can really measure that, can you? Eh... I suppose it's just a matter of opinion. Either way, I'm nowhere near good. Then again, there's something to not being a total ass either.
Anyways, lets move on to something else. You may have caught on to this before I admitted it, but I do happen to be homosexual. No, that isn't why I hang out with a group of cute guys all the time. Those are my brothers. But it is a bit of a sore spot for some people in this District. Some people don't find my... deviance... to be, ahem, "couth" or perhaps, more accurately, to be up to their particular moral standards. But then again, it is who I am, and I stand by it, whether there are people that dislike me for being myself or not.
And it seems ugly, but it can get worse
'Cause even a blueprint is a gift and a curse
Because once you got a theory of how the whole thing works
Everybody wants the next thing to be just like the first[/i]
I suppose, having covered [/color]two of the three major parts of me, we can now move on to the third, and final part. My history. Now please bear with me, as at times, this might take a while, and be a bit difficult for me, to tell, but I will carry on, and in the end, you will know what has led up to me being here, as I am, now. Lets start at the beginning. Please bear with me if I've mentioned some of this before...
I was born, without much fanfare, to my parents, Bruce andKaren Gestalt, on the eve of October Seventeenth, seventeen years ago. I suppose I was a feisty child, because my parents tell me that they had their hands quite full with me growing up. I was a happy baby, with plenty of fat, and nice, chunky baby hands. The only thing that was really unique about me was my tendency to silence. My parents were told, by one of the local wise (albeit insane) women that this was a mark of great character. I have done my best to live up to that prediction.
I suppose that growing up was when I first started hanging around with the guys. Really, it was a mixture of circumstances and luck, combined with a healthy feeling of being alike that grew us together. We grew up being in the same classes, the same work groups, and all that types of stuff, but part of it was just that we went through so many "first" experiences together. By the time we were teenagers, we knew each other better that our parents did. Plus, they were cute. Plus they were just fun to be around. And they were all pretty colors. That was a huge benefit. Well, for me and for them, really. Having nice voices made me more likely to seek their company, and their personalities made me stay.
Growing up, I was a dreamy child, often lost in my own thoughts when I was given the chance. Unlike many dreamy children, however, I was polite and entertaining when one of my peers approached me to converse. I tried to keep the people around me in happy harmony with each other, though sometimes at great cost to myself. Really, from the beginning, I tried to, as my mother puts it: "Make gears mesh." Ha. For the longest time, I had no idea what a gear was, or why it needed to "mesh." For the longest time, this puzzled me greatly. Then, I suppose, fate just had to intervene, and I found out exactly what gears were in a very... visceral way.
But before I get to that, it would be best to understand the events leading up to that, however. Like all children in District Eleven, I only attend school during non-harvest times. Which means by my sixteenth year, I spent about six months of the year working in the fields. Backbreaking labor. At least those bastards who work in the trees have a bit of shade. We aren't so lucky, those of us working in the fields. And the tree-dwellers don't have to deal with heavy farm machinery. But that's next.
I suppose it would be most prudent to start at the beginning. It was a typical day, except for the fact that I had woken up earlier than usual, and therefore started working earlier than usual. After all, it isn't as if I have anything else to do during planting time. Besides, I have a reputation for being an eccentric, but good, worker. Well, had is more like it. After my, ah... accident, I ended up in a tough spot with my supervisors, who thought I had gotten injured on purpose. As if anybody would get... Oh yeah, I still haven't told you what happened yet, have I? Well, there I am, working alone in the fields, planting by hand, when a rogue... tractor (?) hit me. Obviously, this wasn't exactly an expected occurrence, and caught me by surprise. It resulted in several abrasions, and the large scar that I have to this day. Sadly, the drunken (I assume) hoodlums responsible for my injury were never discovered, in spite of the fact that they had, at least, stolen from the Capitol, and also commited vehicular assault against me. Then again, all I am is some slum-rat to anybody that matters. I could die at any time, and no one would care.
Anyways, after the fact, I barely received any medical treatment. Some bandages and a poultrice. I suppose that that contributed greatly to the the knotted scar that now impedes my torso rotation. Really, it's only my fault. I could have taken better care of myself, could have sought more treatment, asked for clean bandages more often. Could have generally tried to take better care of myself. Whatever. Done is done, they say.
Well, now, I'll get to that girl. You know, the one that gave me my tattoos. Yeah, she and I, well, we had a good thing going. I suppose she was always an artistic type, ya'know? She and I, we got on well. we knew each other since being little kids. Nothing romantic, or anything like that. Nah, I've been homosexual since I knew what the word meant. No, we were just best friends, and had been for years. Over that span though, she got caught in with some odd, even strange people. The types you wouldn't want to run into in a field on Halloween. You know the type. Anyways, she got into some heavy shit. Started doing tats for morphling. Still loved her though. She was a sister to me. I still don't know exactly what happened. I don't think I want to.
Anyways, after she disappeared, I started really hanging around with the guys. Instead of just being around them at work, school, and on weekends, I started being with them every waking moment I could. Really, knowing and leaning on them helped me make it through losing one of my best friends. Certainly, I wouldn't have made it through with such little scarring as I did. I suppose that that's why I hang around them they're good support. That's what friends are for, no?
Colors:
Standard/thought|White
Speech/interesting|5d1d38
Theme:
Waiting For The End|Linkin Park
Lyrics:
When They Come For Me|Linkin Park
Other:
Great thanks goes out to Damen and Jimmylost. Jimmy for the character idea, and Damen for invaluable coding tips.
Code Word:
odair
And I'm just a student of the game that they taught me
Rocking every stage and every place that they brought me
I'm awfully underrated but came here to correct it
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