chiaroscuro
It was strange. From the second they met, the jokester held his heart. He trusted the boy with it along with everything else-- their schedule and the keys to their flat and their friends. It was natural. Easy. Simple.
Sometimes he felt auxiliary, like he was watching in the wings while the others shone like stars. The tallest one was always quick to reassure him that he was crucial to the group's success, but the boy was never sure he quite believed.
I'm so happy that you told me stories and gave me advice and shaped my mind out of experiences. You let me do all of my own failing, though, and that is important. Thank you.
And if science is what connects us then I am baffled by it's complexity in a world where simplicity is supposed to be the answer. We take classes and courses and seminars and I feel we're no closer to discovering that science doesn't want to be understood. We're no closer to realising that it all doesn't matter.
A blur. The images overlapped and underlapped each other, spiraling through my memory. It was over, but it was beautiful while it lasted.
The drawer of my mother's bedside table has a cream in it for heels and elbows. She applies it every night before bed. Her hands are always softer than mine. I tried it. The thick, white lotion spread across my fingers and dove into my skin.
And I wish I was strong enough to say what I feel. To tell you everything. To not fear being vulnerable. To face my fears. To lay out my heart. To stand up. To stand down. To accept judgment. To tell the truth always. To love without boundaries.
Your life is in the screen-- handheld, monitor. Step outside and feel the wind. Get untied from your cords again. It's worth it.
And the shadows on the walls form shapes that my imagination takes to new levels. The shapes form figures, and the figures form monsters that paint nightmares on my eyelids late at night.