He is strange.

He appears out of no where, doesn’t say much at first. But later, says a lot. He speaks, as though words are born when he speaks, and held safe in his mouth. Words, he uses to comfort, to make sense, or to just be there, like padding on a new born’s cot. Words that are messy, spilled like water on a paper napkin, spreading and absorbing itself into my thoughts, my consciousness, making themselves comfortable there inside my head, like a comfortable, worn out sofa.

He sings, not with music but with sense and logic of how things ought to be when my vision was blurred. He makes flowers out of soft tissue, and hands them out, like parts of puzzle pieces, each one giving more meaning to the one you got before, so that in the end it all makes beautiful sense.

He’s still rather strange.

Because we’ve just met, and in an hour, or a little more than that, he makes you cry, and laugh, and think and write and pause, but most of all, he reminds you who you really are. All at the same time.

 

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s