Because I ran out of things to say at two in the morning.
Here is this.
I wrote this small excerpt in the spring of last year.
I figured I'd just toss it out there since it's the
one of the few romantic things I will probably
ever write about anything.
Adam was someone that I didn't know. He sat three rows ahead and one seat to the left of me in 7th period English class. His hair was chestnut brown and messy from his lack of upkeep while his eyes were big, clean, and lit up at the call of his name. But other than speaking when he was spoken to in class, he was quiet and would doodle on the beige wooden desk that he was assigned. When class was dismissed, I would take the longer route out the door to check out the messy pencil marks he left. Sometimes it was simple drawings. Other times it was intricate patterns. Rarely, it was nothing; most of the time it was poems and stories that he would write on that desk. And little to his knowledge, our teacher, Mrs. Hesman, would go up to his desk a few minutes after everyone left class and copy the words or take pictures of the drawings with her disposable camera. She must have filled up at least three notebooks of what he created since he transferred into her class. I only knew of this because I left my binder in Mrs. Hesman’s room one time and had to fetch it before I was going to be late for the bus. I caught her in the act. Her face spoke of a deer in headlights. She looked at me and brought her finger to her lips, indicating it was a well-kept secret that she didn't intend to get out. I nodded and left in a silent agreement. By the way she documented it, I knew she was collecting all of this to give to him at some point in his life.
But I didn't know why he did this. But I knew that he had no intentions for anyone to see it. I’m sure that he thought the janitors wiped down the desks everyday as a daily routine. Without observing, I knew that it was our teacher that did the task so that Adam would have a new slate every day to create on.
I wonder what her intentions were. I knew mine. Sometimes I would quickly memorize the passages and copy them down myself, and then recite them in my head. I wanted badly to know what it meant. Why write this? Why not anything else but this? The questions piled up inside of my head as the mystery of who he was expanded further than what I could reach.
Because at first he was a just name, then a slouch of a posture with books in his hand. Then he became condensed words on a table and a glance towards backseat where I sat. He was the galaxy condensed into a soul and a breath of mountain air that I dared not to take. A dazzling mystery in the eyes I set him in. It drove me insane.