☷ SIMON PRAXIMUS ☷ CAPITOL [FIN]

A P P E A R A N C E

I guess you could say I’m a nonconformist, but to say so would make me the opposite, wouldn’t it? I’d be conforming to nonconformists, which would therefore make a conforming, wannabe nonconformer. So nonconformists have to be totally unaware of their nonconformity to be considered as such, but I’m totally aware of how much I stick out like a sore thumb (or in my mind, a healthy thumb among an entire city of sore thumbs), and just how unorthodox I truly am, but it’s not that I’m trying to nonconform- it just comes naturally. So does that mean that I’m just a nonconformist aware of their tendency to nonconform?

Most people seem to think I am, but their heads are filled with perfume clouds and other frivolous things that I just can’t bring myself to care about in the way my mother or my schoolmates do. For instance, there’s a trend going around right now- togas, in honor of the current Hunger Games. (More like brightly colored sheets of rainbow vomit, if you ask me.) I’m more content with a simple t-shirt and a pair of jeans, though such things are ridiculously hard to find in the Capitol. Luckily though, my mother is high up in the stylist world, so she makes all my clothes or gets them shipped in straight from District Eight. (She does, however, sometimes manage to force me into a brightly colored suit or a ridiculous hat, but only for special occasions, and as long as they go in the fireplace immediately afterwards.) She doesn’t like it, of course, but she’s a bit of a pushover and my dad couldn’t care less whether or not I look like a Christmas ornament. I’d rather look like I’ve been plucked right out of District Twelve than dye my skin the color of avocado peels (and I’ve seen that before, mind you. It’s not a pretty sight.)

Oddly, though, my mother hates my hair the most. “Black,” she says (usually with one finger in the air like she’s reciting something she read in styling book or some other disgrace to literature), “is so unbecoming of you, dear. And when’s the last time you even ran a comb through it, or had it styled, darling?” She’d run her sharp fingertips through the silky tumble of hair atop my head, the friction tugging uncomfortably at my scalp, and I would reply, “at least I don’t look unnatural, mother”, and she’d smile because that’s what Capitolites do, and Capitolites are the patron saints of conformity.

It doesn’t end there, though. I’ve got what my mother calls the "Bear Paw Gene", courtesy of my father’s side of the family. I’ve got abnormally large hands (at least, for a Capitolite. I’m sure that in the districts people would find no fault in them.), and my mother absolutely hates it. She’s tried to get me to go in for “corrective” surgery a few times, to have them down-sized or something, among other things- trim those monstrous eyebrows, have that birthmark on your neck removed, get your teeth straightened- the list is endless. She does like my skin, however, of all things. “The color of peaches and cream and baby-soft to the touch.” She’s always asking what chemicals I use, and I always tell her that I don’t use any. My skin’s just naturally soft- just as well, I make a point to be as au naturel as possible.

In fact, I think that word pretty much sums me up. I don’t work out, but I walk to and from school everyday because I prefer it over cars and the noxious fumes that come with it, so I suppose I’m well in shape. I’ve got a broad chest and sort of bulky arms to match, but it’s not like I’m a hunk or anything. I look plain (which to the average Capitolite means ugly), but I like how I look. I like my strong jaw and the constant pink flush dusting my prominent cheekbones, the way my bangs are always getting in my eyes or how my lips are naturally fuller and pinker than most other boys’, the slim bridge of my nose and the dark, earthy hues of my eyes. I like my eyes- they look like the colors of a forest all swirled into dark irises, flecked with the gold of the sun. I’m flawed, and I’m happy with my flaws- though such a notion is ridiculed by most Capitolites. (I remember one time when I was little, I was playing outside on the front lawn and my next-door neighbor’s little boy walked up to me, his hair the same shade as a pomegranate and his face caked with powder. He told me that I looked funny. I told him I looked like a person.) I guess that’s really what I’m going for, though. Human over circus clown. And if being human means that little boys think I look funny or that my mother doesn’t like my hair or that I don’t have very many friends, then that’s fine with me.

Travel light, let the sun eclipse you
'Cause your flight is about to leave
And there's more to this brave adventure
Than you'd ever believe

P E R S O N A L I T Y

I like poetry. It’s so profound and meaningful, you know? There’s so many different ways you can interpret just a single verse, entire stories and teachings strung through the words of a stanza. It has the power to inspire and eternalize, to paint a beautiful picture and make it immortal. Most people don’t seem to understand that (especially the dimwits in my so-called Poetry Club, who unfortunately don’t know the difference between a Shakespearean sonnet and a childrens' nursery rhyme.) Most of the time it just goes right over their immaculately styled heads. I’m the only one that really gives a damn about it, so I’m sort of the face of the Poetry Club. People don’t really like my face though, so my schoolmates mostly consider it a hang-out for the odd, ugly, and unfortunate. I don’t really mind- just as long as I have my books.

I’m kind of that way in a lot of aspects, actually. People sort of steer clear of me, since I’m weird. To them, at least. I don’t go to the mall or squeal about the latest teen trend, I don’t giggle over every little thing or use terms like dear darling babe honey for everyone I speak to, and I don’t gush about my favorite tribute from whatever Games or even watch the Games in general, since I don’t like television. I’m more of a classical music, up all night reading a good book, poetry kind of guy. (My father once patted me on the head and called me an “old soul”. My mother didn’t seem too fond of the term, nor did anyone else on her side of the family.) I don’t know anyone else like that, so I guess that makes me weird. I don’t see it as a bad thing, though. I’m perfectly content with my weirdness.

In fact, I don’t even understand why everyone around me is so keen to dehumanize themselves with “corrective” chemicals and crazy hair and abnormal skin colors and surgery after surgery after surgery. Why can’t they just be happy with what they were born with, instead of constantly trying to “perfect” themselves? I’m fairly positive that God makes us the way we are with the intention of us staying that way, because changing ourselves would be an insult to Him, wouldn’t it? I can count the number of people I’ve seen who couldn’t care less for Capitol trends on my fingers, but I doubt those people are like that for the same reasons I am. I’m all alone, but that’s fine. (Although sometimes I wish I could leave, just point my shoes away from the Capitol and walk until I’m, I dunno, away.) I don’t mind being the only one, but it’d be great if at least someone saw the light and followed my lead. In my eyes, my weird is the right weird, but I don’t tell anyone that. People are free to do what they want, I suppose, and I always hate it when people openly disagree with my ways, so I'm not going to force my ideals onto anyone. But it’d be nice to have someone I can relate to, other than my father.

I kind of like being alone, though. I can think better when there’s no bright colors and raucous city noise to distract me, and I do a lot of thinking. I’m not a genius or anything; I just like puzzles and theories and stuff like that. (I’m not dumb, either. Once when I was younger I told a kid that I didn’t like wearing wigs, and he asked me if it was ‘cause I was stupid.) I guess I’m a little worldlier than most kids my age; my father went so far as to call me wise, once. (My mother likes to use the term misguided, but I don’t take much of what my mother says to heart.) I find that I think better when I’m outdoors, but not just on my lawn or out in the street or something. There’s an arboretum just a few blocks from my house, and it’s like a second home to me. My parents used to take me there when I was little, and they could hardly get me to leave. I know the thing like the back of my palm now, and I spend almost as much time there as I do the library. I like the areas that haven’t quite been touched by Capitol hands- nature at its base. I don’t know why, but I feel really in tune with nature. I think it’s because it kind of understands me, as weird as that sounds. Everything around it may change, but it somehow remains just as true and real as it’s always been, untempered by the destruction inherent in our race. A lot like me.

On the heels of war and wonder
There's a stormy world up there
You can't whisper above the thunder
But you can fly anywhere

H I S T O R Y

Purple burst of paper birds
This picture paints a thousand words
So take a breath of myth and mystery
And don't look back