I met him when I was six. Six months old. At least that was when I could see him. I must confess, for me it was love at first sight. From the way he held me and how he looked at me, I could tell that I had found my first love. He had a laugh like translucent and mystifying. Everything about him was like puffed air and cotton candy and even at a very young age, it thrilled me. He defined and created wonder for me. He told me about name givers who named splendor and created true magic. He told me about the world and our passions which no matter how intense can become snuffed and transformed in the face of the owe-inspiring magnitude of the universe.
His was a different type of love. I saw it in how he looked at me and how he talked to me. I guess that’s why a change in anything he did was so significant and touched me to the very core. Momentarily as I grew, he became indifferent to wards me. I could feel me loosing my narrative of the story. His began, and I didn’t like it one bit. Now he taught me that I was but a small spec in the face of history which stretches backwards and forward endlessly from the moment of our contemplation. He taught me that as much as it was not pleasant to acknowledge insignificance, it was freeing. Therefore, I ought to acknowledge it often. He said that I could act as I wanted and live as I choose and so could he. Then he stopped teaching me.
That moment for me was the most painful I must confess. My whole world seized to exist for I knew no other dimensions. So, I started teaching myself. I had to tell myself that pain is a reminder of being alive. An expectancy and a surrendering for life is full of pain and dependent upon our fallible flesh. Horrible things happen all the time, we all suffer and its just part of life. It’s to be expected, and that’s the point.
When he came back, I was finally able to feel again. To breath, to grow, all in my head. I guess his shear presence was enough because he came with a silence. One that was different. One compressed tightly in a vacuum that was so vast my spirit grew weary attempting to cross it, and so it would return to me to rest feverishly against my sorrowing heart. When I was finally being summoned across the vacuum, my spirit rose instinctively to obey, but I held back in fear of what I might meet there. I think my silence stole the last sanctuary of his rage. This time he was done I could tell. So he left me when I was sixteen.
Here is Kelvin’s Art