Thoughts.

A Few Words

Give me a few words, a flutter, a mutter, from between those two lips. They needn't speak much, for nothing holy says many things. I am not in dire need of those words, but I love them as my own.
When I close my eyes I see a vision; a man in a dark suit that complimented his gaze of sullen serenity. I remember that I love that man. He had almost selflessly given me a bundle of unexplored thoughts for the rest of my life. I thought I could hold him forever. But he ran away with his few words and a serene expression. He was a lovely mess, an endearing satire with a face of a martyr. He had a vision - a perfectly flawed, limited vision. If he had given me a few words or if I had had profound insight, I could have helped him broaden it. It, indeed, was too narrow for anyone to enter.
But how he loved that vision and how he died living for it.
I believe he was utterlessly unhappy. That is the fate of those who love their dreams and goals more than the people who love them. How he worked with his beautiful strong hands, and how he stayed up night after night until his eyes were too strained and wet to continue. How he had locked himself away in his studies, disliking most men, though helping most men. What a strange thing he was indeed.
But how I love that man and how I think his vision was both ridiculous and empowering.
Once I remember having a conversation. Not a terribly sad conversation, but nevertheless a coversation. I told him I loved him and he said nothing. I repeated it two or four times. When he felt obligated to respond, it was a slow, heavy reply. I don't remember what he had said. Perhaps that he loved me. Perhaps that he did not. You could never remember with him.
"I am aware of only a few things," he said, staring at his feet.
"Like what?"
"I am aware of what I have found. I am aware of what I have lost. And I am most certainly aware of what was in between," he responded, gazing at me as if I was part of his journey. Now that I think of it, perhaps I was. Though I can't remember. I suppose his vision limited my broadened thoughts as well.
There was certainly something majestic between the two of us, and if I hadn't known better, I would have said we were soulmates. I would have said that he was made only for me and that the two of us comprehended each other thoroughly. I would have said that only he understood the pains of my childhood, the busy father and the mother who ran away. He had to understand because he himself was abandoned by everyone, left to fend for himself.
"Left to fend for myself," he once muttered, "I think they thought I'd die, but when they sought me out, I succeeded. I had little, yet I succeeded. All I need is my dream, you know. But you are a better dreamer than me. You will help me."
I was a better dreamer than him, but I had never had the chance to help him. He never allowed me, for he always ran away rather like my mother. There was a loneliness in him that was planted too deep so that the roots entangled around each of his organs. If you had tried ripping them away and attempted to plant companionship, he would have cried in agony and withered away slowly. Some roots are too deeply set in soil that they become soil. Some roots are weeds that forbid fruits to grow.
But  I still loved this man and his loneliness. I love how no one else seemed to remember him as anything other than an awkward, distant thing. They never knew any better.
I knew better.
He once called me a dreamer.
Yes, he loved me too. Now I remember.