For my followers who enjoy reading...
He had told me that evening that he was afraid of not being capable to fulfill my expectations, of being too simple for me. He thought that I was expecting something extraordinary, something he could never give me. What a stupid thing ! Then I said to myself.
The reality is that I did not expect much and that everything was already enough pleasant. Enough for him to become the biggest source of inspiration of the moment, and even, one of the biggest of my life. There was certainly simplicity in him, but how beautiful and seductive it was, this plain simplicity.
A bit like a sunset in July, the one that stops you in the middle of your
way and pushes you to take out your camera to capture it. Or even, as the sound of the waves at the edge of the ocean, the one that later, you hope to find in a
shell by sticking your ear to it. So natural, so simple, and yet so intoxicating, so nostalgic.
And how such simplicity can provoke a complex feeling, lead to deep thoughts and inspire an adventurous soul. How he could push me to write,
to capture my memories of him and hope to find them later in my archives.
So certainly, I believe that there was nothing so particular or extraordinary, neither in his
appearance, nor in his way of life. He was a simple man, a little lonely, a little wobbly,
and at times a little lazy. But I read in him, and in his simplicity, a huge complexity. I think, if he was a book, then he would probably be a collection of poems. The kind of poems that are filled with allusions difficult to decipher, with hidden meanings. The kind of poems which only make sense once you discover the biography of their author. And so I took
a real pleasure to decipher each facet of his person, to understand each of his
metaphors and his rhymes.
More than anything, I loved his sensitivity, which he managed to hide so well in everyday life. Behind his sturdy body and intimidating aura, was hidden a man filled with
wounds and doubts. A man, who, by his way of speaking, could provoke a
myriad of emotions. A man who, by his way of looking, could make you want to
take him in your arms and never let go.
I also liked how I was by his side. It seems that I had found a part of me
that I had forced myself to hide, to change. And there, by his side, I was me again. And I was me, because, there was certainly in his story, a part which was very similar to me. Maybe was it easier to learn to love myself by loving him, to accept myself by accepting him. Maybe was I also one of those poems a little too hard to decipher.
It is said that the opposites attract each other, that they somehow reveal our hidden side. He was
just like me. And for once, instead of brutally facing my subconscious, I was facing this consciousness that I had never taken time to love.