The Invisible Old Wooden Man

... because no one was more fragile than he who doesn't fall apart.


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It was that part of the day when I get drunk on a daydream and feel overwhelmed by thoughts enough to crawl to the radically underrated side of the house, settle on the vintage table placed there, and somehow feel accompanied by the invisible old wooden man whom the lines on the surface were his well-earned wrinkles.

I was there, yet somewhere else circling between maybes and what-ifs, storming my mind in order to bring together words and do what my nerdy self does best, write.

It didn’t take long for my intellectual combat to get interfered with a familiar slow-paced walk, and an even more familiar soul who sat in front of me. I could tell in a fraction of a second how exhausted he was, despite the cheerful vibe he brought along. He would initiate a conversation as the order always went since I’ve never been good at starting one, and I would direct all my concentration toward him, perfecting the best friend role he always confides to, and more likely, the only best friend he managed to grow fond of. He would fiercely address every topic and travel back and forth among memories, and places he grew up dreaming about going to … I would sometimes cease to exist and live every story he narrated, and other times, I would lose my focus and admit to myself how magical he was, from how he carries the weight of the world on his shoulders yet still feel as light and as warm as a gentle breeze on a September afternoon, from how much of a wildflower he was, who no matter how they would take and take, he would still overflow.

I would sit there and appreciate every second spent admiring his everything, and I would never have second thoughts about considering him the epitome of strength and softness at the same time because no one was more fragile than he, who doesn’t fall apart.

I found myself, subconsciously stripped of all the overwhelming thoughts I had a minute ago thanks to his welcomed interference, I always loved listening to him and wrapped my head around every single word he spoke, so it’s normal for me to not drag along my over thoughts as a third wheel.

The conversation would eventually start to flame down, and I would enjoy the sight of the street lights paving their way through the window and making love to his face as his hazel eyes wither when tiredness gets the best of him. I watch my sweet dad who’s aged like the fine wine sip his black sugar-free coffee after highlighting my monotonous day and maintaining once more his idol image I grew up looking up to.

Those little moments were what actually breathed life into me, I would hold every tiny sparkle of hope and motivation it gave away, just like clouds hold lightning in a huge storm to contain a rain so heavy, it would be thunder to let it go.

– [ ]


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