He was a kind boy.
With a soft heart for smiles, and a love for the misunderstood.
He may have seemed shy.
But he was just observing.
He had little words to exchange.
But his actions wrote volumes.
He wandered the streets.
Looking for stories that were not his own.
Creating better versions of tragedies.
He had that way of turning stories from one thing, into another.
He could turn any frigid word, into warmth.
I did not understand him, in his stillness.
For I hadn’t stopped moving since conception.
Even then I was the fastest tadpole in the batch.
So you see even my conception was a competition.
And I have been running for first place ever since.
I hoped for a long time that maybe he was observing me.
Maybe he could figure something out that I could not.
I was curious about what he noticed in my behavior.
For my actions aren’t always beautiful.
And I never look quite my best.
I cry too often.
And I fumble over my words, and through my decisions.
I wander if maybe that is why he speaks so infrequently.
Maybe he dislikes to fumble so much, that he never gives himself a chance to do so.
If you never fumble, you can never fail.
If you never fail, you always win?
Maybe he was running in a race much faster than my own.
Either way, there was a quiet disposition in his competitiveness.
Like a lion that hunts his prey.
For he already knows his power, and doesn’t need to be seen for others to know.
The king of his own kingdom in a dark way.
So the boy, became a dark mystery to me in that way.
I am not going to try and figure him out any longer.
I do not think I am ready to read the final pages of his story anyhow.
I fight so hard in this life to be the first one at the finish line in everything that I do.
But I think I will just stay here, wading in the preface of his long pauses.