The Beautiful Perception

                                             The Beautiful Perception

    The first thing he noted about him was the burns on his fingertips. Many things changed about him throughout the days, but those black circles were reliable.

       The second thing he observed about him was that he seemed blatantly average through everyone else’s eyes. Given, he hadn't raced in their shoes, but he had peered in mirrors enough to know how his eyes penetrated while theirs’ skimmed the surface of his blue cotton button up.

         The third thing he decided about him was that his mind lay between two head phones. They were only plastic, simple, flimsy things, but the noise that came through them was scripture. His foot tapped rapidly and sometimes he would try to tap in the same rhythm, but could never keep up.

            The fourth thing he imagined about him was that he knew a lot about constellations. He had caught him looking at the sun too many times to think it was a coincidence. The faint designs he sketched on his desk were his masterpieces, composed of minimal shapes and odd dots. 

            The fifth thing he guessed about him was that he didn't like words. It was a rarity when he spoke, and he only spoke when spoken to. His voice was rough with pit holes; underused. Still, he found his words to form haikus.

            The sixth thing he determined about him was that he read people more often than books. He was always there, somewhere in the open, able to observe everything. His presence was normal and expected, but not appreciated or asked for.  He always managed to be around when the climax hit, but was never mentioned in the credits.

            The seventh thing he established about him was that his legs were new. He was at a blossoming stage, but his roots were meant for the seas, and not the land. He skimmed the surface of the floor with a purpose not found in others his age. If anyone else had been as invested in the way his sneakers were silent, even upon leaves, as he was, than his stride would have been convincing; one that would demand a second glance.  

            The eighth thing he identified about him was that he didn't like the dark without the stars. Whenever the blinds were closed  he gripped his desk like a toddler riding a bike for the first time. He wished that he could embody that desk for a day, feeling his child-like grip begging for comfort.

            The ninth thing he knew about him was that he didn't like the sight of his hands. While in motion often, whenever dormant they trickled off the table and out of his eyesight. They would open; bare palms curved outwards, black circles on finger tips, waiting for something to fill them. For what, he would never fully decide.

            The last thing he yearned for in him was the presence of his eyes. They had never made contact with his and their mystery would keep him awake during the nights. Occasionally he looked outside and imagined that the lights of the night were on either side of his nose.