People I know through their writing, through their blogs? I imagine what they look like. I let their words shape their image in my head; edges blurred, colors vague but bewitchingly exquisite.
In my head, she has the softest hands and a real smile, you know. The gorgeous curls don’t distract me though, not even a little bit, from the world that we both j ’adore. I want to sit by her side and read, some day. Not blabber. Not dissect the book. Just sit. And read.
In my head, she exudes warmth off her being. You cannot be around her without feeling a frisson of that warmth run up your own spine, filling you up with some kind of emotion, not quite happiness, but close. You are a little pot being filled with her wisdom by association.
In my head, he holds intelligent conversations about arachnids and Salman Khan. And not boring intelligent, mind you. Funny intelligent. Like when someone cracks a really good chicken crossing or knock, knock joke. He is also the type to reach out for his girlfriend’s hands over the table while engrossed in her incessant dissection of her latest favorite thing.
In my head, she has muscle definition and strength of soul. If we happen to take the same metro together, I’d expect her to raise hell when the creep tries to grope that poor girl in the corner. If she becomes my friend, she will most certainly tell me to stop wearing my baggy pants because they look fuckin’ terrible on me.
In my head, she has this secret cafe with great food; if we were friends, she'd take me there every weekend. We would stuff our faces with food and talk into the late evening about fake people and weird ex crushes. Real talk. No floopiness.
In my head, she is a little bunny. A happy little bunny, going about life. And because she is a little bunny, everyone seems to discounts her abilities – but only just until she lawyers the living daylights out of them, drops mic, and traipses off to write the most beautiful words on the planet that make me want to cry of happiness.
In my head, this one’s image always blends with Scotch and Dusk, they are a unit, aren’t they. If she were my friend, she would not hesitate to rap me on the head when she thinks I am being overly judgmental but she will also take me out for drinks and make sure I have a good time when she finds out my boss has been horrible to me. We would always find the most gorgeous bistros and the most exquisite wines together.
In my head, she is always in a yellow summer dress, beautiful and radiant. But her hands are always messy, gorgeous messy, with half a dozen colors chasing for space. She is a synonym for ephemeral and her work always makes me feel the same way as a mug of warm, chocolatey cocoa with a giant marshmallow dunked in it.
Sigh. How I love my blog people.
