On Mystery
He writes in riddles to hide. He speaks like pauses on a sheet of music. Self expression was not a trait he was taught and before long he grew a beard before he gained a voice.
Hey there. Hi. Hello. Easy, quick, non-threatening simple-talk was all could be mustered when the time finally came. Salutations, introductions, greetings, all were white noise to a man, a boy who wanted more. He wanted jolts of lighting running down his veins but was too scared to touch a spark. He wanted to cheat and skip the pleasantries of meeting someone new.
Then life became more technological and texting began to normalize. Introverts rejoiced all around their individual rooms. Now his eyes replaced his voice and he could a little more himself. Hi’s turned into inquiries on tattoos. How are you was replaced by sly puns about travel photos. He began to see color on his palette, where empty slots remained untouched for years.
He went out. He saw things. He crossed borders. He slowly allowed himself the pleasure of discovering oneself and became more in tune with humanity. His perspective shifted, tilted, and sometimes shattered apart from his experiences. His comfort zone widened. He could sing along to songs in the car now. He can sleep in his underwear. He does not spiral into existential despair every time he gets blackout drunk anymore. He is slowly aligning himself with the wavelengths of his own potential. This arouses him as much as it frightens him.
What will happen when he is fully himself? Will he implode from sheer perfection? Will time stop and his existence end then and there? Will his family still love him. Will his friends stay with him. Will he find anybody. What will happen when he chooses to be him?
