Persona
Title: Persona
Rating: G
Word Count: ~660 (drabble)
Summary: Kim Jongin is no one really, so he escapes into Kai...
PERSONA
Kim Jongin is no one really...
At least no one worth knowing. It’s a fact that has never really bothered him. Besides a stage, a spotlight, a dance, Kim Jongin doesn’t know much else; Kim Jongin doesn’t want much else.
He is but a collection of occurrences, a flurry of short friendships and brief adventures. His childhood is a riddle of memories, of warm ocean summers and sticky hands. Most would look back with fondness, whereas he looks on with indifference. Days before dance meant nothing to him anymore. His childhood self, running through parks and swingsets, was nothing more than old home videos collecting dust in some storage room shelf.
Kim Jongin is made of desperate auditions, short-lived accomplishments, endless nights of practice, and a passion that will sooner kill him than die itself. He is nothing but what he was built up to be. He takes what he’s given and lives half-days of not-quite-there dreams. Kim Jongin has never really been anyone, so when he’s told to become Kai, the transition is a little too natural.
Kim Jongin is made up of the struggle.
Kai is the acquisition of a dream.
Kai is someone he never truly was, but never truly wasn’t. He didn’t feel he existed too much before Kai came along to set anchor. Amidst the whipping waves and winds of soon-to-be stardom, Kai had taken hold of his ship and settled it all with a “Right here, you’ll be right here, you’ll act this way, you’ll exist”. Kim Jongin all too happily smiled at the identity, at the surety he’d never had. Because now he had Kai and now he was real.
Everyone said that Kai was his stage name, his sexy persona. That the real Kim Jongin was in the shy smiles and awkward hearts between performances. But people had it twisted, because it was the name Kim Jongin that held no real meaning, that had no real substance. Kim Jongin was a passion for dance, a vessel otherwise guided by the tides of those around him. Kim Jongin was the one giving somewhat disconcerting answers during interviews.
“The only thing I had going for me at the time was dancing.”
“I would rather bend than break.”
“I’d have no regrets dying on stage.”
Kai was the one who filtered and formed the raw want into something admirable, something respected, and not something crazed.
“I’m going to give every last bit of my passion for dance to Exo.”
He was the perfect idol. He had to be, that was the last identity he was given. He was Exo’s Kai, the dancing machine: endless charisma, beautiful face, admirable passion.
Kim Jongin’s not too sure if he actually exists.
If Kai isn’t performing, isn’t at a fansign, then Jongin is spending sleepless nights in the dance room, practicing already perfected dance moves. When he sits to eat, half asleep until needed, he hangs between Kai and no one. Do his bandmates receive the awkward smiles that he shows at fansigns? Or should he give them the indifferent stare he always has? For some reason, both options seem faulty.
Because the more Sehun joins him for practice, the less he finds himself lost in the dance; he’ll even stop to help correct the younger boy. He never knew he had a favorite food until Kyungsoo’s constant pestering of no what do you want for dinner prompted him to find one. Baekhyun and Chanyeol’s antics began drawing bubbles of laughter; genuine, uncontrollable laughter. Joonmyun’s gentle leadership and guidance brought a tender smile to his lips, the kind that was quickly hidden behind a sleeve or pillow.
Kim Jongin doesn’t really exist actually. But no one really exists. They’re all just made up of the things they’ve seen, the places they’ve been, the people they know. And maybe, there’s nothing wrong with that. Because if Kim Jongin is the people he’s with, then he knows everything will be okay.
Rating: G
Word Count: ~660 (drabble)
Summary: Kim Jongin is no one really, so he escapes into Kai...
PERSONA
Kim Jongin is no one really...
At least no one worth knowing. It’s a fact that has never really bothered him. Besides a stage, a spotlight, a dance, Kim Jongin doesn’t know much else; Kim Jongin doesn’t want much else.
He is but a collection of occurrences, a flurry of short friendships and brief adventures. His childhood is a riddle of memories, of warm ocean summers and sticky hands. Most would look back with fondness, whereas he looks on with indifference. Days before dance meant nothing to him anymore. His childhood self, running through parks and swingsets, was nothing more than old home videos collecting dust in some storage room shelf.
Kim Jongin is made of desperate auditions, short-lived accomplishments, endless nights of practice, and a passion that will sooner kill him than die itself. He is nothing but what he was built up to be. He takes what he’s given and lives half-days of not-quite-there dreams. Kim Jongin has never really been anyone, so when he’s told to become Kai, the transition is a little too natural.
Kim Jongin is made up of the struggle.
Kai is the acquisition of a dream.
Kai is someone he never truly was, but never truly wasn’t. He didn’t feel he existed too much before Kai came along to set anchor. Amidst the whipping waves and winds of soon-to-be stardom, Kai had taken hold of his ship and settled it all with a “Right here, you’ll be right here, you’ll act this way, you’ll exist”. Kim Jongin all too happily smiled at the identity, at the surety he’d never had. Because now he had Kai and now he was real.
Everyone said that Kai was his stage name, his sexy persona. That the real Kim Jongin was in the shy smiles and awkward hearts between performances. But people had it twisted, because it was the name Kim Jongin that held no real meaning, that had no real substance. Kim Jongin was a passion for dance, a vessel otherwise guided by the tides of those around him. Kim Jongin was the one giving somewhat disconcerting answers during interviews.
“The only thing I had going for me at the time was dancing.”
“I would rather bend than break.”
“I’d have no regrets dying on stage.”
Kai was the one who filtered and formed the raw want into something admirable, something respected, and not something crazed.
“I’m going to give every last bit of my passion for dance to Exo.”
He was the perfect idol. He had to be, that was the last identity he was given. He was Exo’s Kai, the dancing machine: endless charisma, beautiful face, admirable passion.
Kim Jongin’s not too sure if he actually exists.
If Kai isn’t performing, isn’t at a fansign, then Jongin is spending sleepless nights in the dance room, practicing already perfected dance moves. When he sits to eat, half asleep until needed, he hangs between Kai and no one. Do his bandmates receive the awkward smiles that he shows at fansigns? Or should he give them the indifferent stare he always has? For some reason, both options seem faulty.
Because the more Sehun joins him for practice, the less he finds himself lost in the dance; he’ll even stop to help correct the younger boy. He never knew he had a favorite food until Kyungsoo’s constant pestering of no what do you want for dinner prompted him to find one. Baekhyun and Chanyeol’s antics began drawing bubbles of laughter; genuine, uncontrollable laughter. Joonmyun’s gentle leadership and guidance brought a tender smile to his lips, the kind that was quickly hidden behind a sleeve or pillow.
Kim Jongin doesn’t really exist actually. But no one really exists. They’re all just made up of the things they’ve seen, the places they’ve been, the people they know. And maybe, there’s nothing wrong with that. Because if Kim Jongin is the people he’s with, then he knows everything will be okay.