He found solace in the blots of ink he managed to splatter across blank pages while he scribbled what his heart and mind held for her. Only because, it was all he could do when memories he ran away from, caught up with him every night, when he tried to sleep off what his crowded mind shouted to him. She was going to come back to him one day. He wasn't going to stop until she did. He was waiting. Time was never an issue for someone who kept no account of it.
I had seen a restlessness in his eyes, a kind of passive aggression is his walk, waiting to be unleashed by a split second of a feeling of vengeance. It was then that he started blaming himself for what he was, and what had made him that way.
Every twilight that I'd seen passion frenzy through him, I saw the depths of his soul, manifest themselves into the notes that played of the instrument he chose to play; like a bolt of lightening unleashing the secrets of a dark sky, mobbed by masses of enraged clouds waiting to wage a war with the earth. Often I'd seen that rage trance into a melancholic, benevolent call for hope with faith hidden in its soft, low keys that tried to keep his belief in happy endings from turning into dust, that would soon settle down with the pitter-patter of a rainfall of tears he wasn't allowed to cry anymore. Morbidity had become a part of his world, and happiness only a visitor that never stepped through the doorway of his mind.
He longed, he craved. He hoped, he prayed.
He was stone for those who would never know. They were right, or so I liked to believe. Seeing him, I knew that stones could be cracked; they could be engraved upon, only to leave scars and words as good as what we liked to believe eternity meant.
After all, we're all human at the end of the day...
After all he's only human...