“I cannot explain it”, she said…
“Well, not everyone can do it… Not nearly everyone…” He continued, “I mean, its been over four years, since you’ve done it, and you just pick up your pen, and it spills out… All falling into place, as if you never, ever, stopped.”
He pauses for a moment to attempt to better understand, what it is exactly, that even he, himself, is defining for her at this very moment…
He continues…
“It has rhythm. It makes sense. Its pretty… Mostly… And sad too… But that’s how anyone who takes the time to absorb it, each word you seem to carelessly select, yet each word seems to fit, so perfectly, it often leaves your readers speechless… Intimidated to even try to speak upon what you’ve written… Because… Its good… Its real… I can feel it.”
He finishes his thought as he shyly looks over towards her…
She is sitting cross-legged by the window, tying a few strands of her hair into knots… Over and over again…
He cant help but to notice, as he can feel her present emotion so thick… Almost suffocating him as he shifts, sitting with the discomfort of her very real and undeniably raw sense of feeling, hanging in the room, like heavy drapes on big glass windows built on the front side of an enormous estate… The kind you drive by as a child, riding in the back seat of your parents car as a child… Thinking it must be like a museum inside… Intimidating in thoughts of being homelike… And not too comfortable either… But you still have wild, childlike fantasies of what it must be like… To be a part of a family that lives in one of those enormous, fancy and unrealistic estates that are actually considered a real ‘home’ to some people…
She was real…
And she was raw…
Always so open, like a book or a magazine…
He often wished he could communicate his life like she could… So open… So real… Captivating others like he has seen her do… More than a time or two…
“I cant explain it… I just pick up my pen and I let everything else go… I brush all the dirt from my mind… The tragic loss and deep pain too… I let go… And I just write… Its as if my soul is speaking… Yes, my soul, it is as if it’s dancing across the paper with words as its partner… Except its my prose that renders itself across the paper… And I don’t even know what I’m writing at the moment of first transcription… I truly don’t” she trails off, rather shyly…
He enjoys her shy smile as usual… Chosing not to interrupt her, as he most often does… hoping for a glance of her when shes feeling overly open and exposed… vulnerability is sweet on her and he likes it… more every time he witnesses it…
“Why now?” He asks, anticipating her response… Not having a clue what her answer could be… She is spectacular at presenting that moment revealing her element of surprise…
“Why now, after four, long, and may I say, four unbelievable years it has been for you… Since you wrote last… So, why, now… What is the significance of this time, right here, right now”, he asks her…
She is deep within her thought process… Deep in her deep mind… He can visibly see her soul at work… Pulling the perfect verbal response…
And after a few moments, she looks up to him and says, “Four years?”
“What is this ‘four years’ you keep pressing me about!?” She continues…
“Yes, I do believe, that I am ready, to speak on some things that my soul has been pushing for quite some time now…”
She pauses…
And she breathes deep…
Then with curious and lost eyes, she looks at him and says;
“But who are you? How do you speak to know so much on me! We’ve only just met!……”
***
I have some things to write about. And after all this, in due time, it is now… That I, finally come back up for air… To write about these things that I, have seen with my own eyes… Felt with my own hands… Heard with my own ears and tasted in everything that followed them…
I have thought.
It is time to speak.
…to be continued…
***
J.LeFever
Tryst Publication
2020