vldyeseulâ:
and in a moment, sheâs reminded once again why kinam becomes a resolve, no. a one-punch hit of logic that yanks her back into the realm of reality that sheâs become astray to. âitâs never too late?â she quirks a brow gently, one that doesnât heave condescension but breeds a layer of skepticism within her answer. years ago at the flitting age of fifteen, sheâd been gone girl. a wild one that accepted each and every wave of a violent breeze, uprooting her into another world to assimilate to. yet, life intercepted its grimy hands, marking her. etching her. molding her into a form of obedience â something, even she herself couldnât come to terms with.
âdoes this mean now that youâve told me that â youâll believe your own advice and strut the stage again?â yeseulâs well aware, acquainted with the stage presence that captivates, no. domineers the stage occupied by the male. yet, sheâs also familiarized herself to know that lost dreams are now fragmented and scattered â requiring the agony of assembling it back together piece by piece. and maybe, thatâs what adds a film of comfort knowing the two are aligned in a mutual cognizance.Â
so, she sighs helplessly underneath the soft utterance of her words, a hand that perches itself on her lap with eyes too tired to fight the strain of bright fluorescence lights. âperhaps in another world, iâd be divorced from this wretched ipad of mine, exchanging it for the ease of a keyboard. and youâd be back on stage, enchanting the lines of cameras aimed your way.â
Many years ago heâd made peace with the Morning, acknowledging that every bright mornâ brought a new day, a new reason to drag himself from the comfort of his bed, of his home, of his singular form as a human and creature and dancer. Dragged from his room, dragged from the stage, dragging from his passion â but passion is a frequently fleeting measure, something more-so ever-changed and ever-present despite rarely ever holding the same form for but a few moments before shifting again, sifting again.
Passion was soft, passion was fickle, but it was also strong and dexterous, determined to push forward even the least flexible in body and mind. Passion came and went, but when it came it was with a force, and when it went it created a scar, like the one across his eyebrow from an accident he barely remembers but his mother retells with a soft yet worrisome smile.
âItâs never too late,â the trainer echoed once more, eyes squinting in slight he adjusted his view and looked to the young woman. He sat up from his place on the couch, palm gently slipping from his face before nestling against his lap. Dark eyes â tired eyes â watched her then, a sadness hanging on the tip of each eyelash, yet batted away at the next blink.
âIâd like to,â he answered, voice a soft hum, words wisps against the thin skin of his lips, âbut Iâm old now, too old for me to be new again.â
He stretched his arms over his head, elbows gently cracking as if to prove his point. The sound pull a small smile across his face.
âMaybe as a soloist, or a producer or choreographer, but the group days are over. ... And thatâs okay, donât you think? Sometimes the parallel is closer than we think.â












