Sunday, December 11, 2011

Novel Eulogy

Always on the quieter side, he never stuck out much – but in that same manner, he stood out like a sore thumb in its disquietude, a misplaced appendage which caught the eye in a most magnetic and offensive manner.

Looking into you, he seemed to probe the recesses of your being – looking at old photographs, hearing long-dead words, touching faded, now-worn skin before it ever was as such. He saw this and amplified the qualities which were reflected in himself, pruning the ones which did not hold the same symmetry. He was thought arrogant, conceited, egocentric – and yet still he would mesmerize those unused to such a subversive influence; an undertow of social reprehension, carrying you out so deep you no longer knew what was beneath you – if your legs even existed or your body ended where it met the water.

He made you feel fluid – changeable – malleable – open to the possibility of potential lying in static apprehension, one step from anything you ever wanted to be – but only if you blossomed in his presence – and, even rarer, if he blossomed in yours.

A smouldering ember – a co-dependent coupling of maybes.

When his novelty wore out – when his jilted, cynical gaze was no longer so different from what everyone else saw – he folded and became one of the people he had once sculpted from clay: a social parasite in need of exoticism and vanity – desperately peering around the room to see if anything glittering was actually gold.