:: Of Small Things ::

The sky is art today. It's a little bit of Monet, a litte splash of Warhol, a little tinge of Renoir. Hello, cosmic canvas.

My crazy Welshman used to watch the skies all the time―I'd lost count of the times where he'd fade abruptly into his imagination in the middle of a business call. I would pick up the slack in his pause and jabber on about our wonderful corporate guidelines while he stared into the distance, the still blue of the sky an echo of the colbalt mirror in his eyes.

I didn't know what it was that fascinated him. But the boy in him marveled at the colours and the clarity of our universe, while the man in him marveled at the boy who saw all this despite his shirt-and-tie existence. Cem, you crazy old dog―I miss you.

He wrote, today. He's a master of glib intimacy―one of those wordsmiths who could be funny and sentimental, wistful and disingenous all in the same sentence. He used to make my mind spin. I remember the drought after his departure, where I would have thoughts of rapture and destruction, but no one to share them with.

But like he said: Because you know me, you are inside of me forever.

That, I suppose, is a commitment we all should have no problems giving. A commitment of nothing, to nothing―except the memory of moments that have rustled to life and faded with grace. I think of him and I think of an Indian summer, filled with languid passion―one that will eventually mellow into a quiet autumn, sedate with sleep.

***

Special Note of Thanks to T:

First Cut may be the deepest, but melancholy is mostly Just My Imagination. Someday We'll Know why we go through the trials we do, but right now, I'm Bent on being at peace.

A highly original birthday gift. Merci, mon ami.