Z for Zitilong.

In response to the a to z challenge

Who are you, Zitilong? A poem, a prose? A legendary solo played perfectly in an empty theatre after the show is over?
No one knows.

I could take a canvas, splash on black, brown, pink and white in random strokes. I would have you.
I could sit down, stack impatience, self-criticism, indifference and a sick sense of humour in a pile and I would have you.

I could perhaps leave a picture, of you hugging your arms in a show of vulnerability against the wind, while your face was turned up in an attempt to catch exactly what you were pretending to escape and I would have you explained.

I go around life collecting the different shells, the uniquely beautiful or grossly misshapen ones, and you, under your disguise of plainness almost slipped my eye. Everyone I know is open, puzzled but open but you are already playing dice with life.
It does you no credit, mind you- I’m only stating facts; you pretend to be everything others expect you not to be just because it amuses you.

You got disillusioned, and now you fool the world with your sudden brushes of tenderness followed by startlingly lewd depictions of leisure. You are playing, with ice and fire, making a joke out of the world because you think it’s too busy to notice you.
You, with your cracked laughter, will say exactly the opposite of what you want, hide your secrets with vengeance and deny something only to hold the power of denial; because it amuses you.

There is more to you ofcourse, a softness inside-but we won’t dwell on that.
You wanted to be a devil, I’ll paint you as one.

You enjoy being unnoticed, you enjoy being the drummer. You are a legitimate reason for violence and depravity for a passtime. Everything for you is a whim, because you dare not tell the world what you really want.

You’d like to believe you’re a mystery, you’re not. I could analyse you, break you into pieces and strew you across the floor like I had promised, but I won’t.

Or maybe I already did, and now you know some promises are still kept. Some girls still like playing.

I took from you, put you up on my blog- a solved jigsaw puzzle and that’s a lesson for you right there- you’re not as invisible as you think.

Behind that air of indifference, I know you’re laughing at others. You’re relishing the satisfaction of people dismissing the rough exterior as hard to read, because we both know what’s inside.

You’d like to think you’re a mystery. You’re just a charlatan, and I found your book of tricks.

Note: this is a work of fiction, any resemblance to any person dead or alive is purely coincidental and unintentional.

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