The artist

Occasionally, two people in the world are perfect for each other in that time, in that space, but too shy to admit it, a third party comes in and forces them to collide, causing a collision that changes every aspect of their life.

This happened yesterday, and despite the fact that I like to keep details as vague as possible this is something that I would like to share in its (almost) entirety.

So I am visiting the Big Apple again, there is no beach this time only people just existing as they meander through the throes of people. I’m with three friends for my last weekend of “freedom” and we’re having a blast at the biggest toy store in the world.

During our runs, I find this amazing face painter and they convince me, the shy child that I am, to get my face painted.

And I do, and it’s wonderful.

So we move to Central Park where many photographs by strangers are taken of me, and for the first time in my life I feel almost invisible – not out of loneliness – but invisible in the sense that others are watching me and judging and I don’t care anymore. I can hide behind something.

So at some point my friend spies a jazz band and we watch and listen for a good long time. I get compliments on my face paint and I smile, then my smile and then my clothes.

In the process, all three of my friends are asleep and I am just sitting there listening, when this young man sits near our vicinity. He’s college aged, dressed decent and pulls out a notebook and pen. He begins to draw.

I’m captivated: every stroke he makes is to the beat of the music, the details are infinite and the creativity and passion are in his hands. In a way I’m jealous, through the paths of which I’ve taken throughout my time blogging I lost that ability. I made up excuses and refused to listen to others stating I had a problem.

My friend notices my interest and pressures me to talk to him. Scared, I refuse. He talks to him for me and it creates a spark between both of us that’s completely unexplainable.

So for the rest of the night, he’s with our little group, talking, making friends and whatnot and it’s nice. But my friends being the people who they are, force us to be alone so subtly that we end up alone most of the time. There’s no hand holding or anything like that, just mutual admiration.

“Even if it hurts, get into the habit of drawing everyday. It seems like you lost your spirit.” He says to me, eyeing a sketchbook for me. Eventually I buy it and shuffle for a pen in my purse. (The elusive purse of which everything gets lost).

I begin drawing and he gives me every material he has. I turn shades of color suddenly realizing what my friends were trying to do for hours.

We get back home and I remove the face paint and dress casually, and his face lights up in a way I’ve only seen done a few times.

Unfortunately we have to part ways, no words of love and admiration were passed or physical security. But we know.

Some things are better not said. Some things are better untold.

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