I fit awkwardly amidst his known genius. How the extremity of colors seem to flounce before me. How his words seem to create the cracks against the pavements I walk upon.
He smoldered me with his erratic yet unorthodox views in life. And how, each journey seem to become a part of me. Unchanging, almost precise to what I thought fantasy would look like, if books came to life. How fiction isn’t just a word made possible by imagination. I was drowning but at the same time, I was breathing the life he laid before my lungs to breathe. He was selfless and I was restless. I was exploring places uncharted by my feeble brain, yet he navigated me. Made me see what needed to be seen.
I was free-falling and yet he held me against his palms like gravity was his very name. I am reading his very identity and touching the syllables against my fingers, as he kept on strumming the strings of my heart while the stars wondered above us. I am a writer, a meaningless shadow scribbling life into a redundant manifesto. He was a graceful nomad, a wonderful being loitering about the planet, hoping to reach any stranger’s heart and leave them with such hope.