By Leah
You. A stroke of genius in a world full of mediocrity. A calming intellectual in a sea full of narcissistic know-it-alls. A person so well-thought-of in the grandness of the Almighty’s creations. How do I fully encapsulate the joy I feel when I hear you give voice to your ideas and thoughts? The way words tumble from your lips so elegantly and fully, as if you’ve always known they were meant to be said.
Perhaps it was a spur-the-moment type thing, a crack in my judgment if you will. I tell myself when I am alone that I will one day forget all about this silly little crush. But, no, my dear. In a field of dandelions and lavender, I would still only be able to look at you. In a room full of artworks painted by the greats; Van Gogh, Da Vinci, and Monet, it wouldn’t matter. My eyes would only find fascination in you. At a book fair with all of my favourite authors, I would still only want to sit and listen to you. Hell, if Hozier were serenading me right outside my bedroom window, I would still wait to hear your song.
In a world where I somehow plucked up the courage to actually talk to you, I’d sit with you for hours just to pick your brain. I’d ask you about life and philosophy and every other topic that I would otherwise feel too pretentious to discuss. I’d ask you about your worldview or if you’ve ever thought about the Roman Empire or your view on love. I’d ask you if you believed in the invisible string theory and love at first sight. We’d sit side by side and I’d listen to all of your thoughts with a soft smile and an open heart. I’d answer your questions, if you had any, and hopefully intrigue your mind if only a fraction of how much you intrigue mine.
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