This was the beginning of a dropped idea for one of my English papers from November. I think about Dorian way too much...........
He was at first just a figure with hollow black eyes. Even as a face sketched in dark skinny lead on the back of my assignments, I always knew there was something unsettling about them, as if they revealed to me hidden chaos, even in the most tranquil of settings, but I could never put my finger on it.
His skinny fingers calculated their placement in public. Always flickering his black eyes between the people around him and the floor, changing his position, remaining out of touch with things he thought were germ-infested, like the table surface, or the arms of his chair.
Getting to know him was like stepping back into my own childhood, remembering a hazed vision of colors and shapes; of the toys in my room, and bedtime. Of being afraid for no reason other than that I didn’t understand the real world and was too preoccupied with my imagination. That was him. All the time. Departing a vastly changing place he’s ashamed to call home, he rode his bike to work up a street that felt black and white and had a million faces stare at him every day. A disapproving, entertained glance at his endeavors was disheartening enough to make him stop and rethink why he existed, but I admired his persistence a moment later, even if it was product of tested immunity. I felt like I was the only one that would ever be able to help him, but never him specifically. He would be touched, as best as I could master, by digging through the history and fully understanding his disease.
He was at first just a figure with hollow black eyes. Even as a face sketched in dark skinny lead on the back of my assignments, I always knew there was something unsettling about them, as if they revealed to me hidden chaos, even in the most tranquil of settings, but I could never put my finger on it.
His skinny fingers calculated their placement in public. Always flickering his black eyes between the people around him and the floor, changing his position, remaining out of touch with things he thought were germ-infested, like the table surface, or the arms of his chair.
Getting to know him was like stepping back into my own childhood, remembering a hazed vision of colors and shapes; of the toys in my room, and bedtime. Of being afraid for no reason other than that I didn’t understand the real world and was too preoccupied with my imagination. That was him. All the time. Departing a vastly changing place he’s ashamed to call home, he rode his bike to work up a street that felt black and white and had a million faces stare at him every day. A disapproving, entertained glance at his endeavors was disheartening enough to make him stop and rethink why he existed, but I admired his persistence a moment later, even if it was product of tested immunity. I felt like I was the only one that would ever be able to help him, but never him specifically. He would be touched, as best as I could master, by digging through the history and fully understanding his disease.
Current Mood: 
lonely
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