In his eyes

His eyes scanned the crowd in the darkness. Standing motionless above them all, waiting for the music to start filled him with excitement and nervousness. What will they think of it? Will they appreciate it, or think of him as a conceited prick?

Why did he want to do it anyway? He had been asked many times, and he had asked himself the same question. He had no answer. He only had a sense of finality about it. He knew he had to do it, even though the reasons were unclear.

They cheered for the woman dressed in soft green, who allowed her violin to softly fall to her waist. Her song was over, and his was almost starting.

The moment before music began, he saw a revelation. The stage grew dark, and the place where he was standing, behind them, above them, turned into a floodlit podium of mist. Whispering voices caressed his cheek, spilt tongues of lust. He saw himself as a leader, and them, as followers. Doubt seized his whole being: would he lead them to love, or to hatred? In a moment, they would turn to see him, and receive him with open arms, receive him into their embraces, cover him with their hands, fill his lungs with their scents. But would they see his purpose, or would they only want to touch him, and be healed?

He did not want to show himself as something more than he was, but temptation was persistent, and before he knew it, it was stinging his pure heart. He saw vast fields of riches and endless masses of idolising fans. They adored him already, and the nowledge that they would tear him to pieces made him stand proud and feeling important.

He suddenly grew scared- it was not a good idea- they would not understand, they would interpret it in ways that would not be right- they might even hurt him. He glanced at his security guards, and they looked at him reassuringly, though he suspected they only pretended to be calm.

His heartbeat slowed down, and the world froze into immobility. Mist floated up his thighs, around his waist, reaching up to his arms, grabbing his neck with delicate fingers that evaporated before he could brush them off. He felt cold. The moment, too, was shivering in its cradle of time, awaiting its fate. He knew he could not keep things from happening any longer. It was too late: he had become a prisoner of his own grandiose scheme.

Before the storm erupted, he was hung between the earth and the skies. He was weightless, and when he looked down, he noticed the soft mist-hands that were lifting him off the ground. They held him for the fraction of a second, and then dissolved into his cells, building into his muscles and tissues, filling him with darkness and hope, fear and certainty, and each time, new mist-palms appeared, feeding from his emotions that grew in his heart, threatening to burst it. He watched his feet, and forced himself to descend to the ground. Their ground. He had to be where they were if he wanted to reach them.

His decision brought on the end of the moment, and when it all began, he was not scared any more.

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