Synd: And what is it instead that ails you this time, O Pycha? It seems to me that of late you have had more to ponder over than usual.
Pycha: Of course. The waltz is never a fast one, and dancers step three to every measure. The prologue, the conflict, the resolution. The hamartia, the peripeteia, and finally the exile. Will anagnorisis exist for the exiled? Will there be cartharsis for the audience? The saga is in its early stages, Synd, and much more will be in progress.
Synd: Then for what do you ail for, Pycha? What role could you possibly have in this great unfolding of a play but of the audience with its feelings of transient revelation and understanding? The audience will mourn for Othello as he stabs himself over Desdemona's dead body, but soon after the couple lay in eternal peace they shall wipe their tears in their exeunt. Surely you shall eventually act like them, will you not?
Pycha: It is indeed what role I will play in this very saga that has me pondering, Synd. What is my role in this world for a stage? Shall I be the Faustian king, lording over all who wish they were remotely similar? Shall I be Shylock, and claim that they too shall suffer as I have had in the past? Shall I sacrifice myself to help them, to love them, and never know the true feelings underlying those I help on their quests? Unlike Medea, I am no demigod, Synd, and I can exact no divine exit; I am confined to the world I exist in and the relationships I have with the others. But what I can do in my very context is to ponder, to hesitate, to wait. All while Denmark goes to Fortinbras.
Synd: Do you seriously have to consider your position in the saga unfolding before you? Does your trust for your peers end up so shallow? Is it impossible for you to ever see them on the same level as you? Others may very well regret that one like you would have such a personality; it matches in too well with their own stereotypes.
Pycha: It is a sad state of affairs to hang out with the rest currently while they discuss the fallen. Who shall fall? Who shall face exile? Who shall find themselves no longer in the kingdom for their sin of imperfection? Their questions head but in one direction. Yet it goes further - they live in sympathy for the exiled, for they know how it feels like to fall. What place have I there? To be stared at as the counterpoint? To be remarked against by "If only this man helped" and countless other overdue wishes and reminiscences?
Synd: Have you no sympathy for the fallen, then? Surely you know what it likes to be amongst the fallen. You have been there as many times as I have.
Pycha: Yet it is by virtue of my current state that I may not show my sympathy, is it not? I am no lord, I am merely the jester who knows more than he lets on, and mocks more than he can handle. Who finds magnanimousness in a jester, I ask you? In fact, I ask you another thing. What if it had been me instead amongst the exile?
Synd: By virtue of who you are I cannot accept that, Pycha. It is even beyond you to allow yourself to be in such a state as to be in risk of exile.
Pycha: Then for argument sake assume I go for higher ground; for greener pastures and brighter lands. What of them then? I tell you what I fear: That they bear no sympathy for me by virtue of the excuse that "This is what is good for him". The old lie, isn't it?
Synd: What sympathy would exist for a man reaching higher heights? Your argument is vain, Pycha.
Pycha: And my point uncaught by you. Does it matter if it's for the better? Might it not be for the better that the exiled learn their place? Yet it isn't so - it is the bonds that are shattered that are mourned for. The friendships broken. The time together discontinued. What then for me? Does reason suddenly turn its head to kick the emotional aspect away? Why do the teary eyes of sadness become the lifeless stares of judgment? Because it would be for the better? Hypocrisy, I tell you, that the same situation bear differing outcomes by virtue of the man. Shall I bring it further? What if I were indeed amongst the fallen? Will the same outcome occur as if I left in high flaming chariots across the sky to the sun as Medea did, the deus ex machina?
Synd: What are you talking about? These are all mere possibilities, Pycha. That they turn to reality is but a farce that Iago has cast upon you! Your mind plays tricks on you, Pycha. The world sees you the same way it sees everyone else - a part of it all.
Pycha: Then what role do I play, if not a necessary villain, Synd? Without a representation of motive, of humanity, of any aspect to myself, I am but a one-dimensioned character, am I not? Perhaps even a man who gets it all without even trying in the least bit! Perhaps then it is my duty to be the antagonist! To mock! To laugh! To never bleed! Perhaps then they might be driven to beat me, for otherwise I may very well be unable to help.
Understand, Synd. A new fear has been placed within me. One that has shown to me the fraility of my current self. You're right, Synd. Everything is a mere possibility. But if I were ever to be in that state for a good cause or not, there exists many possibilities as to what may happen. And now, I have to make sure that for the sake of never allowing the possibility of the many possibilities to exist, I must continue on this path. And if I am viewed as I am, I must never let anyone have the chance to see me as anything apart from what I have been perceived by them to be.
Synd: For your own sake I pray that this does not turn out the course of action.
Pycha: We pray with similar intentions.
In retrospect, the very fact that I can write about Pycha is rather disturbing in itself.