Sketches

sketch 1: M

Paintings on the right by Mark Ryden--------> "Incarnation" (The Meat Show); "Little Boy Blue" (Bunnies and Bees) 

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M is an intellectual revolutionist– I’ve seen some of M’s writing: the impressive vocabulary, the weighted, profound images between the lines.

M is a talented creator – I’ve seen some of the paintings: full of blood, gore, violence. They are weird. Could be a fetish.

M is a good-looking unlabeled gothic – likes to wear black, too much eyeliner, gives off a dark aurora. Quote, unquote.

M is a social and emotional psychopath – aloof toward strangers, but reveals true colors (somewhat) only around me…or so I would like to believe. I remember M’s screams (M had ears covered, mine didn’t) when talking to the parents, gloomy eyes looking out to the world.

To say I know M well would be a lie. The only opportunity for outsiders to peek into M’s mind is through stories, art works, poems, things like that – some of which I had come across through M’s blogger website just recently – but they were far from adequate; you never know what the fuck M is thinking, not even during the most poignant passages. Perhaps that's just as well, for this veil may have kept M sane since childhood, like a safety mechanism not dissimilar to that of a snail using its shell to protect itself from the full-fledged force of a collapsing whale (side note: habitat restrictions do not apply in this example).

Nevertheless, all of M's works are fascinating, alien, heart-wrenchingly sad; beautiful beyond words.

I expected such. Oh yes, I hold M to a fairly high pedestal in the land of Literature and Artistry. Amongst the few qualities that have improved (organization and maturity) or escalated (satire and chaos) in M’s works through the years – one lingering eminence remained, which sums up M’s character rather nicely: haunted.

Still.

I had gotten very close to M before, had managed to catch a fleeting glimpse into M’s “soul”, and even tried to fight off the “demon” that possessed M’s being in the most brave and innocent way of well-meaning youngster in defense of their amigo.

All of that was once upon a time.

All of that couldn’t be avoided; in the first place, for it’s not because we choose to seek each other out for companionship or some other crap, but because M happened to be assigned as my roommate in freshman year of college, when we were seventeen years old.