J for jarred.

In response to the a to z challenge

I forgot the important bits. The colour of his eyes, the shape of his nose. The most obvious features disappeared, smudged into the monochrome of memories.
Yet, something lingered. Not the usual glue stops that freeze in my head. I don’t remember the smile, the flash of a sudden expression in his gaze, the tilt of his head.
Something else, something deeper lingered. It lurked in the corner of my head, sticking to my mindcastle walls and in-exorbitantly crawling into my soul.

Someone had sliced through my indifference with a serrated knife, leaving me exposed, spools of reel unwinding, raw and bloody.
But I’m deviating.

What did I remember, of him?
I remember fluidity. Of his motions, of his actions, done with the sort of deliberate ease, that reminds you of a streamlined bullet, or the slash of a sword.
Everything about him was contained, gentle, unhurried to the point where his entity seemed to be physically holding back violence.

Like all muses, he stood unaware, a throng of people, a field of auras enclosed within the grey fringes of the world.
And here I was, trying to save what I can, collecting a glass jar of pure sand, before the storm comes and his glow ebbs.

Imagine a car driving at full speed in a highway while rain battered onto the empty asphalt. At a sudden pothole before your vehicle, unable to stop, you run it under.
The tires buck, scratch and lift again, and the shock of it quakes deep in your bones.
That’s who I met.
An earthquake. And my blood hummed, while I drove away.
It was a near-death experience.


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