“The quietest people have the loudest minds.” ~Stephen King
Wallflower: empathetic, patient, introverted, and often times one of the most fascinating type of person you’ll ever meet.
We are the unpretentious spectators, the inquisitive minded, and the timid speakers. The lively pace of the world does not inhibit our engagement with our surroundings, rather it enhances our sensations and observations. Delicate, wanting smiles grace over our lips, and the tranquility of our aura softly emanates amongst the world of noise and restless yet tiring souls.
One need not be a poet or an english professor to be a wallflower. Wallflowers are individuals who are thoroughly connected to themselves and their environment. We notice what others may miss, essentially the smaller scenes and gestures of life. There is a profound connection between emotion and imagination. A simple glance at any given spectacle may become a source of inspiration for a whimsical story, or even just a brief moment of artistic perception.
. . .
They walked like old, familiar lovers: hand-in-hand with intertwined fingers and a synchronized step that would have made ball dancers jealous. She was petite, but flaunted the most dignified curves. Her dark hair fell in loose waves over her shoulders, partially hiding her heart-shaped face. When she spoke to him, his eyes glistened and he smiled the most radiant smile. He patiently listened as her words rushed through his ears, never taking his eyes off her. He was tall, lanky, and desperately needed a hair cut…but that smile, it couldn’t have been more clear…
Suddenly in the middle of the pathway he stopped, letting their hands momentarily slip. She continued walking, but turned around immediately once she felt the cold wind brush through her empty fingers.
And there he was. On bended knee. Nervous yet captivated. A box in hand.
And there she was. Beautiful and stunned. Her eyes welling with tears.
I can only imagine what he must’ve said to her. Poetic or not, the tenderness and infatuation between them could have out-written any given love story.
It was under this starry night that I had witnessed love in its purest, most humble form.
The ring glistened under the pathway light, gently adorning her dainty finger.
He kissed her passionately there under the natural light of the moon and stars, leaving them both awestruck and breathless.
. . .
Although we yearn for those lighthearted and gratifying moments, we have no protection against the elements of trial and tribulation. And yet we use these experiences as works of melodic poetry, rushing through our circuits with the fervency of a raging current.
. . .
She sat alone on the bench by the pond, sketching something which looked to be a figure in her notebook. Her backpack rested half opened next to her, disorganized with crumpled papers strewn everywhere. It was an unusually warm day, but here this peculiar stranger was, perched on her bench, hiding under the hood of her sweatshirt, and tapping her bright yellow rain boots to some unknown beat. Maybe the beat of her music? I couldn’t see any headphones… She looked up abruptly and peered over her shoulder scanning the area. I leaned forward too, wondering what she was looking for. She glanced my way, although I’m not sure that she noticed me sitting there across the way. She scribbled something furiously into her notebook, ripped it out and crumbled it. *deep breath* she mouthed, *inhale, exhale.* Rolling up her sleeves, I saw her pain written on her wrists. Numerous faded lines, although some looked fairly recent…
Pen in hand, she tried again. This time, she wrote slowly and effortlessly.
I peered at my watch. Classes just let out and people began walking through.
They passed her by… I had forgotten how quiet it was.
She ignored them. *Odd, I thought. Just moments before, she seemed spooked just at the thought of human presence…*
As soon as the lunch crowd had passed and it was quiet once again, she packed up her haphazard bag and pulled down her sleeves, hood still covering her head. She got up gradually, rereading her entry before tearing it out and leaving it behind on the bench. *inhale, exhale* she once again mouthed. I looked up just as she looked my direction, locking eyes. She had an angular face with very prominent cheekbones. Her eyes shone like gorgeous sapphires, but they revealed a dark past and indescribable anguish. I smiled empathetically. *Let me help you…as if she were telepathic…* She tried to smile back at me, but her eyes motioned me toward the note. I nodded, *ok, I understand!* She looked down, back up at me, and timidly lifted a hand as if saying goodbye.
After she had left, I walked to the bench, her bench. It was a quote:
I hope you live a life you’re proud of
And if you find you’re not
I hope you have the strength
to start all over again.
. . .
Subconsciously deep in thought, our minds drift away with our building narratives before we realize we’ve been pulled under the crashing waves of visions and fantasies, in essence a utopia for the dreamers.
“You’re a wallflower. You see things, you keep quiet about them, and you understand.”