vldyeseul:
and in a moment, she’s 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 she’s become astray to. “it’s never too late?” she quirks a brow gently, one that doesn’t heave condescension but breeds a layer of skepticism within her answer. years ago at the flitting age of fifteen, she’d 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 — something, even she herself couldn’t come to terms with.
“does this mean now that you’ve told me that — you’ll believe your own advice and strut the stage again?” yeseul’s well aware, acquainted with the stage presence that captivates, no. domineers the stage occupied by the male. yet, she’s also familiarized herself to know that lost dreams are now fragmented and scattered — requiring the agony of assembling it back together piece by piece. and maybe, that’s what adds a film of comfort knowing the two are aligned in a mutual cognizance.
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. “perhaps in another world, i’d be divorced from this wretched ipad of mine, exchanging it for the ease of a keyboard. and you’d be back on stage, enchanting the lines of cameras aimed your way.”
Many years ago he’d made peace with the Morning, acknowledging that every bright morn’ 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 — 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.
“It’s never too late,” 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 — tired eyes — watched her then, a sadness hanging on the tip of each eyelash, yet batted away at the next blink.
“I’d like to,” he answered, voice a soft hum, words wisps against the thin skin of his lips, “but I’m old now, too old for me to be new again.”
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.
“Maybe as a soloist, or a producer or choreographer, but the group days are over. ... And that’s okay, don’t you think? Sometimes the parallel is closer than we think.”
