poking and prodding, insisting and peering; a carousel of “too much” and “not enough”, compassion unfolds itself in an asymmetrical fashion, a subconscious weighing of needs. a personality can drift and shapeshift, mold itself according to its circumstances—- but it cannot eradicate inherent traits, no matter the environment. anger. rage. ever-blinding volatility. ones born with its seed already planted do not remember a time without its branches piercing tender tissue and burning vulnerable flesh, a hair-trigger all that’s necessary to instigate a violent encounter.
“ i said i’m fine, please just drop it, ” @finalita demands, an inevitable request.
irritation’s thorns prick and prod the lining of the trachea it’s nestled in as it crawls up the long tunnel of his throat—- settling right under his tongue, threatening to wound every word.
teenagers. stubborn, persistent, bordering on adult responsibilities with less-than-adult minds. an annoying contradiction, and worst of all, a reminder of the self. when i was your age… so the ancient proverb goes, one caesar dare not utter now. yet somehow, he feels its urge burning a hole in his chest.
i won’t, caesar wants to say, dismissing fugo’s macabre demand. but he knows better than that. having raised seven children from birth to adulthood meant he understood a child’s mind (even if barely). breaking down the shoddily-built door amidst the towering wall would result in total self-isolation. it would make for a poor choice. but responding with a simple ‘alright’ isn’t appropriate, either. what a conundrum. why won’t you let me care, child?
“ so… you got anything else to share? any… interesting stories? ” and thus, caesar hands fugo the thin, worn conversational reins.
