Oddities of Storms in Summer

It’s raining from where I’m writing this. Not much of a typhoon compared to what I’m used to experiencing from where I originally came from. Nonetheless, it’s a welcome change from the sweltering summer heat.

Currently, I’m sliding into one of my pensive moods. However, I’m not entirely sure how to organize my thoughts but maybe, writing it down might help. It’s just a couple of things so sit back, relax, and watch me bare the unbearable.

He had always been a bit odd.

That is to say, he stuck out like a sore thumb in a sea of wood grains and chips. However, I do not discount the fact that I first noticed him in a room of lackluster people. I would not forget how he had shone brightly that day. The way my heart just knew that he was there – like a beacon to a ship lost in a storm. But there had to have been a certain kind of oddity that made me notice him in the first place. It might have been his gait and countenance. The way he never smiled as he made his way into the long corridors would make the finest contrast for times when he did smile. It was incandescent. Coincidentally, it might have been his eyes. The way they soften and sharpen depending on the topic or the person he was talking to. There was such vibrancy to them that could never hide his emotions and it had always baffled me why people couldn’t understand him when he was practically wearing his heart on his sleeves.

However, these have passed as observations done in retrospect. Lately though, I find that my head turns to the uneven pattern of his footsteps when he arrives. I find that my body comfortably slides just a little over ten inches behind of his when we walk in stride. There is a certain brand of comfort that exists in that ten-inch void. There is the feel of home in his uneven stride.

In this sense, I had always been a bit odd.

Odd that I would notice the minute things that could easily pass from everyone’s stare. Odd that I would think about it from time to time. Odd that I would catch myself smiling from a half memory.

I struck out in a storm and wound up crashing into him in waves.

He was the April to my December and possibly I was his as well.

It was the chase of the opposite seasons; one barren while the other teems with life. He was ancient and I was a newborn – both exploring the vast expanse of the void that exists between the hearts of man. In the course of the pull of the unknown gravity that settled between our orbits, I turned ancient and he was the newborn.  I knew the wisdom that would come and he saw the world anew.

It was beautiful and it was sad. He was the Primavera flourishing against the Starry Night. Like night gives way to day so to shall the intricacies that lay in between us.

I was the December to his April but I was the Indian summer of his January.

 

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About kyogakura
Bored 95% of the time.

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