Blossoms
The quietness of the spring wind moves through thickets of hair uncut, spilling onto my shoulders and flowing behind my head. My small feet are planted onto this earthly surface as I stare out into the world. In my right hand, I hold a small parchment of thin paper and in my left, a pen of black ink; ready to write the wonders of the present day. I hear the laughter of a small child nearby, who's held in the loving arms of his mother. I offer a tender smile and she returns it with a sheepish look, as if to be embarrassed of her child.
"What's his name?" I ask softly.
"It's Matthew," she replies.
"What a beautiful namesake."
The lineage of a title that traces back to the actions of a sinner who gave up his work as a tax collector to follow the mysterious man, ultimately leading him to face death for his sake. A blind confidence built on a solid foundation of true faith. Belief that his fear of the world ahead would dissipate at his name, it would vanish at the mere thought of him.
Now, I pray and ask for the same conviction.
Morning turns into afternoon as I make my way out of the hidden peak. The lavishing colours of green overhead which mix with the brilliant blue of the sky. Slowly but surely, my steps take me to a doorstep. A home that I am much too familiar with yet eager to leave behind; desperate to cast into bottomless abyss of my memory. But I know what must be done now. And so I ring your door. A second passes, then a minute, there is no answer. I press the button once more but rather than being greeted by your gentle gaze, I stare into eyes full of wisdom, decorated by maps of wrinkles and sporting thin grey hair.
"Is there someone you're looking for?" he says in a kind tone.
I reply calmly, "Yes."
His irises indicate the passing of his confusion and the arrival of realization. His worn face softens and emotions paint a consoling smile.
"They moved out last month, my dear," he says as if delivering a eulogy.
"Oh, thank you," is all I manage to squeeze out of my voice before turning around and placing myself on the concrete sidewalk in front of the beige house. I hear the door close behind me as the old man commences his evening, interrupted by the wandering soul seeking some sort of direction, but coming away with closure instead.
.
"What's his name?" I ask softly.
"It's Matthew," she replies.
"What a beautiful namesake."
The lineage of a title that traces back to the actions of a sinner who gave up his work as a tax collector to follow the mysterious man, ultimately leading him to face death for his sake. A blind confidence built on a solid foundation of true faith. Belief that his fear of the world ahead would dissipate at his name, it would vanish at the mere thought of him.
Now, I pray and ask for the same conviction.
Morning turns into afternoon as I make my way out of the hidden peak. The lavishing colours of green overhead which mix with the brilliant blue of the sky. Slowly but surely, my steps take me to a doorstep. A home that I am much too familiar with yet eager to leave behind; desperate to cast into bottomless abyss of my memory. But I know what must be done now. And so I ring your door. A second passes, then a minute, there is no answer. I press the button once more but rather than being greeted by your gentle gaze, I stare into eyes full of wisdom, decorated by maps of wrinkles and sporting thin grey hair.
"Is there someone you're looking for?" he says in a kind tone.
I reply calmly, "Yes."
His irises indicate the passing of his confusion and the arrival of realization. His worn face softens and emotions paint a consoling smile.
"They moved out last month, my dear," he says as if delivering a eulogy.
"Oh, thank you," is all I manage to squeeze out of my voice before turning around and placing myself on the concrete sidewalk in front of the beige house. I hear the door close behind me as the old man commences his evening, interrupted by the wandering soul seeking some sort of direction, but coming away with closure instead.
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| 5 Centimetres Per Second |
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