Creations
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Jiyong wasn’t always poetic, or more accurately, he wasn’t always in a poetic mood.
Sometimes he would feel dead and not really feel; other times he feel, feel so much that his senses were flooded and words would prove to be inadequate to the point they were almost meaningless.
But other times, special times, he could feel the world around him in such a way where he could vividly articulate every sensation, every electrifying beat of his heart, beautifully and wonderfully through music, though lyrics, through a language more profound than words. Every time he manage to do so, he felt accomplished, as if he had contributed to the world in what little ways he could.
But there were only so many things in the world to talk about.
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The first accusation was a punch in the gut, only deeper and somehow manipulated in such a way that it grabbed his heart and squeezed it painfully and without mercy.
He nodded solemnly to every word his employer carefully relayed to him, took in his manager’s sympathetic looks, and saw suspicious comments, too many of them, quick to accuse him.
He told himself not to cry, but late at night, while Seungri and Daesung played video games and Youngbae danced and Seunghyun slept, he broke that particular resolution and felt alone in the world.
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The second time was easier, only not.
He kept his head up high, because he was G-Dragon: child prodigy and musical genius.
Kwon Jiyong might have not been so insensitive though.
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There was only so many ways love could be expressed eloquently.
Love was like a song, with addictive starts, intense choruses, transitional bridges.
There was only so many types of love.
There were only so many beats in the world to go around.
But did anyone know that?
If so, did anyone care?
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He would stay up late at night and spend long afternoons with him and his keyboard looking for the perfect and fresh beat to compliment his lyrics.
Sometimes he felt the originality that he worshipped reverently was grossly overrated.
No one cared though, and it occurred to him on a sad and stressful day that the only way to be heard was to pretend to have some.
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The third time was redundant.
He felt hurt, but not hurt enough to be brought down.
He worked harder, for longer hours, maybe sacrificed a night or a meal for an old song repackaged in a more attractive way.
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He looked in the mirror.
He wished he was born with the earth, because then he could possess true creations of his own.
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The fourth time wouldn’t happen.
He would make songs and lyrics decades old into his own.
He would fuse in his experience, personality, feelings, and everything he had to make it his.
That way maybe, hopefully, he could get a taste of what it was like to create something he could call his own.
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