Dreamer, Take a Seat.

I know that distinct feeling, the feeling when you're drawn to that one person, the feeling when all you want to do is turn around, not knowing their name or how they came to exist in this world and reveal your deepest fears, secrets and hidden memories no matter what the consequences.

Every Tuesday afternoon he walks in with a solemn grace and an almost invisible aura, and quietly takes his seat behind me. I instantly feel his presence, soft and unnerved. Just acknowledging his existence sends me spinning into a fantasy realm, where I, the daydreamer, begin to confess my undying love to him, wanting ever so much for our bodies to merge. I feel almost wicked, blushing at the fact that I let his eyes read inside my lines, understanding my need to desire. I feel as if I am intruding into his barricaded world with the exaggerated hallucinations in which I possess.

Shame on me, strange that I scold myself when I feel no shame, just a wanting to discover more. I dream of sifting through his boxes lined with velvet, collecting his intricate details and thumbing through his books, so that the pages of my child-like scrapbook can be filled with notes, and extraordinary things, never to suffer with the feeling of emptiness again.

In a hushed whisper I confess…

He’s ever so mysterious, I couldn’t dream of a more perfect soul. I envision him to read quietly on a Sunday night by a bay window, whilst drinking tea. He would observe the outside world with a new perspective each and every day, finding the ultimate beauty in everything. Taking the time to watch things grow, blossom, flourish, he will never tire of these such things. In my mind I see his world as an array of fragments, ripped at the edges, discoloured with time, yet layered upon each other with fading texts and broken memories. I believe I’ve started this story with the wrong tone of voice for such a magnificent creature, for I have felt as if I have disrespected his character by treating him like an object of desire when he is the object of my affections and nothing less. I want to put him into a time frame, a frame inside my thoughts, where the colours of peach and rose pink are ever so delightful to the eyes. Images of floral designs, inkwells and feathers spring to mind and yet there is nothing to write on except faint yellow paper.

The magician of my heart, unsuspecting of his influence over me, he somehow turns the pages of my flower pressed soul and I envy him for having that strength over me.

I know this written account will not progress into a plot nor storyline, due to the simple fact that I cannot penetrate the walls of his labyrinth, for I will never fully explore it myself let alone explaining it to an eager reader.

I want to map his dreams and layer them onto his body, soft lines and street signs. I’ve noticed a change, so soft and subtle and if it were shaded the colour would be a pastel pink. Yet the change is meaningful, for, as I’ve discovered, explored and collected the sentimental scripts, which cover his soul, my view of him has changed; resulting in a tone adjustment. Forgive me for this accident. It was not planned and therefore raw.

He draws me in with brushstrokes, and willingly paints over my views, opening a window, framed with dieing pine and chipped green paint. A window where the glass is enveloped by a fine layer of dust and dirt. The windows are an opening of my spirit, seeing things in odd shades of colour, like seeing for the first time. I mentioned I envied him for having this sort of strength over me, but those crystal set eyes of his dazzle me, and in turn the envy disappears. Wondrous, I wish I could press him down between the pages of my journal so his essence could seep through my words like a liquid, bleeding through onto the pages to form my life’s inspiration. Poetry in motion, yet it isn’t love; I will not make the same dreadful mistake twice. It’s an artistic infatuation with a soul that resinates to the sound and texture of my own.

Smelling like cinnamon, he reminds me of a gloomy day, where the clouds cascade over the skies whilst the rain makes everything glitter with purity making you desire a cup of the most delightful hot chocolate…sprinkled with his energy, dark and rewarding. That sense of warmth spreads through the quiet corners of my body, enveloping me with a sense of freedom and safety all because he smells like cinnamon.

I shiver with an energised sense of passion, at the very thought of his existence. A blissful mantra emanates from the tips of his sometimes-wandering fingers. “Can I kill someone?” he says even though I portray him as a gentle natured soul. The darkness does envelope his crevices the way his smell mystifies mine. He makes me feel like an antique book in all its soft-spoken glory. The thumbed through pages, touched and the untouched, markings in my margins, comments imprinted through my chapters, paragraphs and sentences. I feel his tender eyes reading, rendering my every hidden line, and coating me with his knowledgeable hands. He brushes off my aesthetic cobwebs and embraces my mood, whichever it may be. It is not love, just an infatuation of the soul.

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