The One with the Love for Words

Almost forty-two years into this long-haul excursion called life and, still, the resident, wide-eyed, insatiable 10-year-old remains agog at the ever-changing painting of everyday existence. From the bold strokes on life's canvas to the minor flourishes randomly scattered with passion, he still has sights set on the attractive. He has an eye for beauty. He has an ear for harmony. He has hands that will gravitate towards crafting things that contribute elegance and appeal to just about anything that surrounds him.

Ten. He receives the warmth of a vigorous embrace given from behind him by surprise. The giver: his father. The occasion: his day of birth. This memory has since stayed forever engraved in the deep recesses of his mind; tucked away in a private room of outstanding remembrances; unknowingly stored for future recollections of significant instances pertaining to relationships. Perhaps that storeroom might even be deeper than that.

Twenty. He ponders on the ramifications of some emotion-driven decisions that have resulted in the squandering of roughly a quarter of a year out of his life. Apparently, his inclination for all the pretty things has shepherded him away from what was essential to what he deemed important at the time. He had ventured away from academia and sauntered into the arcades. Credits to the Children of the Atom.

Thirty. He happily complies with the requirements of his newfound artistic expression: learn melodies; learn harmonies; memorize lyrics; drop the jaw; and smile. The singing group he somehow managed to become a part of gave him more than he could ever anticipate. Here, his education comes in its most creative form. He exuberantly embraces it. The pieces of music he and his friends practiced off of pages and pages of song sheets taught him that life is full of crescendos -- the highs, the happy, the hopeful -- as much as it was rife with diminuendos -- the lows, the lulls, the lack.

Forty. He looks back on the lofty recognition given him a few years earlier. His mind is polarized. One half says it has come too fast. The other says it was divine intervention. He had somehow foreseen that day happening but never envisioned it coming to pass so soon. He adjusts to the new moniker that that recognition officially stamped upon him -- it was both unnecessarily awkward and uncomfortably welcomed. He profusely thanks God for the opportunity handed him to be able craft things that contribute elegance and appeal to anyone and anything that surrounds him.

Ten. Still ten. He will always be ten. Part of him will always be the one with the love for the beauty of words and putting them together. Like so.

He has been relaunched.