‘have we met?’ ( namgi in another life pls 🥺 )
poetry is nearer to vital truth than history.
just as his pen hits the paper, it feels like slicing himself open. vulnerable and honest, baring his soul for anyone who’d flip through his pages and devour the contents. a reflection into the depths of his psyche, emotions he couldn’t bare to speak out loud — not even to the silence of his four walls.
much like, he’d muse, an artist seated in front of an empty canvas mounted on an easel. the paintbrush their pen, a form of expression so raw it always leaves him staggering. confounded. a poet at a loss for words.
he often finds himself in museums when he can’t write, legs tucked under him on an empty bench, watching numerous people pass by and admire the work. sometimes he doesn’t know what he watches more — the art, or the people that move about like art. life in it’s purest form of existence. when a strangers eyes light up with the emotion reflected in colours, he puts pen to paper again. scribbles out a lonely thought floating in the space of his mind with no real direction.
why is there no opposite word of loneliness?
another transient thought, guitar strapped to the back of a man much smaller in stature. hovering by cooler tones, attracted to them like a moth to a blue flame. the stranger clad in black stops by one his favourites. the colours bounce off the surface of their glasses. behind them; inspiration. an expression he’s seen on himself countless times, reflected back in mirrors and dark window panes. the urge to capture the emotion of a painting and translate it to words. to a melody in their case, he ponders. wonders if they’re a composer or a lyricist much like himself. an itch to know more, an inexplicable draw to feed his curiosity.
could it be because people, until they die, have no moments of not being lonely?
the opportunity presents itself sooner rather than later. the condensation drips off his lonely pint of beer, the sun making it’s solo descent to the horizon, tucking itself behind trees. the warm glow makes him feel full — of what he can’t quite describe. the notepad before him sits mostly empty, save for a few haphazard scribbles. if he read into the lines adorning the page he might know that familiar aching loneliness. might recognise it better than he does now.
the last barstool next to him is taken up before he can contemplate on it further. he looks up, merely to offer a friendly smile, only to be met with a figure clad in all black. a stark contrast to his light, neutral tones. the guitar rests between them, the case leaning against the counter precariously. precariously, like his heart hanging on the edge of thumping loud enough to be heard over the chatter of the bar. precariously, like his body leaning over to the smaller man’s, moments from tipping over the stool in his haste to get a better look. the other man turns, catlike eyes brimming with curious surprise. namjoon startles, leaning back against the inexplicable gravitational pull to put some distance between them. his lips part slowly, sticking where they’ve been bitten bruised and chapped.