-+=Start=+-
Do you know what a Geode is? I used to be jealous of the people that found them lying there in the desert when they went out on vacation. I wanted to be them. I thought it was amazing how someone could walk past a blackened lump of solidified minerals that looked not unlike a wad of elephant dung and think there might be something a bit more to it. My mother used to buy them for me when she went down to San Diego..but it was not the same as choosing to pick up that unassuming rock on my own. I wanted to be the type of person that could do that with everything. The type of person that could look through the outer shells of another person's life and see the amethyst bars twinkling inside. I wanted to watch the light bounce off in swirling little waves when the surface was finally peeled away. Isn't it funny, then, that instead of finding a geode of my own to unveil I found out that I myself was among the dusty, charcoal colored lumps of dung that needed to be discovered? I know, right. Hilarious. Go figure; that's life for you. It was a boy that found me. No, no that way. Get your head out of the gutter. I am glad he did. It was funny, because I had always thought the people that found geodes were different than the rocks themselves. Higher. Smarter. Past their awkward phase. Now I realize that was stupid. It takes one to know one..doesn't it? In case you can't figure it out: yes. It does. Only after you have been there yourself can you truly perceive the subtle hints of a diamond in the rough. It's much easier than looking in the mirror and seeing the glittering shards of a valuable crystal. Of course, in some cases, we use those other geodes as our mirrors, and find ourselves in their eyes instead. I like that part of life. It makes me feel understood. As I said before, it was a boy that found me. He was quiet. A backdrop in his own mind; a prop that nobody would fuss over should it be stolen. The type of person that hides their eyes from themselves, because they are afraid of what they might see looking back from inside the mirror. Sometimes I wonder if he did it on accident, and if that is why he doesn't see his full potential. His true purpose. His impact on other geodes. Other times I wonder if he does it on purpose because he does not think there is any potential, or purpose, or meaning there to see. He's wrong. But that's okay. One day someone will tell him. Or one day he will tell himself. Whichever comes first. He taught me how to hug. Can you imagine it? Eighteen years old and I only just recently learned what a real hug was. You see, in my family a hug is regarded with as much interest as raising your hand in class to ask a question. It is a simple formality, a tradition. A way to announce that you have greeted someone when they arrived, and that you have wished them farewell when they are preparing to leave. They were cold. They were empty. They were a routine that held no warmth or purpose. Pomp and circumstance, really. I felt rather stupid about thinking all that was normal after he showed me the right way to use a hug. He told me once that I was a good hugger, or something to that effect, and I had to laugh. I had never told him I did not know how to hug. I had merely followed his example. I know now that you can say a lot with just one quick wrap of your arms around somebody else's person. A notion of comfort when they are sad, or angry. A genuine thrum of excitement at seeing them after an absence. A way to just show that they are appreciated. Friendly. Addictive, if you care to use the word. I know, it sounds sort of superfluous but to me it was big. Huge. No, screw that. It was colossal. Like going to a foreign country and suddenly understanding the language without ever having to take months and years of grueling classes. It was a door to a world I had not even realized I was ever searching for. And it didn't stop there. He does not care that I'm a Christian, even though he himself dislikes them in general. Isn't that cool? He listens when you talk to him. It's a rarer habit than you might think. I know plenty of people that hear the words I am saying…but so very very few of them that actually listen. It requires effort, and I suspect that is why so many refuse to do it. After all; listening is not just something you do with your ears. Listening is something you do with your heart; your whole being. It's exhausting, and as I learned through observing him..often worth the effort. When you learn how to listen properly you can sit and watch as right before your eyes the people you care about blossom, transform, relinquish their fears… It's beautiful. Like a painter finally seeing his life's work hanging in the same halls as the Mona Lisa. Sometimes I wonder if he feels that way too, when he listens to people, and helps them heal. Does he even know he helps them heal? I should ask, shouldn't I? It's hard to learn without asking questions, isn't it? He is my best friend, by the way, in case you were confused. He always will be. And I dare not anyone, but everyone to even think about trying to change that. It won't happen. It's their loss for attempting the impossible. I can't talk to him every day, by the way. I have not hugged him in several months. He's not here anymore. Well, he is here, on earth..but not here here. Not close enough to smile at. Not close enough to see me wave. Not close enough for another group hug with our other friends he has managed to touch. When he left, we changed our meeting place for lunch break. We missed him. We miss him. We're always going to miss him. But that's okay. Missing somebody means that you always have that drive, that desire to see them again. It means that whenever that possibility of an opportunity arrives, you'll seize it, and pretty soon you won't be missing them any longer. You will be talking to them. Laughing. Smiling. Waving. Hugging. High-fiving. Making stupid jokes that none of you understand any more because you are too busy being blinded by tears of giddy dorkness. That's the best kind of situation ever. I know. I lost another friend to distance once, and when she came back, I could almost feel my own joy like it was some heavy jacket, or ball and chain dragging behind my ankle. But this would be different. He is my best friend. It would be more special. I told him he scared me the first time I saw him. I was lying. He's not scary. He's five million feet tall with big dark shades; but he's not scary. He's loveable. He's sweet. He's quiet. He's got no frickin' idea how awesome he is, and I have not got the vocabulary required to tell him. I don't know enough words. I don't know the right words. He's a hell of a lot smarter than me, too. Pretty embarrassing, considering I'm older, right..? Nope. Not at all. Age is a number that screws you over in the end anyhow. Friends are friends and friends are of equal status regardless of age, occupation, or family situation. Damn straight. I said it. Want to know what the best part is, though? His name is Galileo. How frickin' awesome is THAT? You know you're cool when people can sing your name without even knowing what song it comes from. I would let him read this..but I feel like I am being sappy. It sucks how the only way I know to tell the truth is using clichés. It makes me sound so insincere. It hurts. Of course, I know if I ever did show him, he would know what I meant. He's cool like that, because he listens.
-+=The End=+-