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To A Little Invisible Being Who Is Expected Soon To Be Visible

"One of the key characteristics of Romanticism is the tendency is to Side with the underdog." 

My eyes drifted to the word Morpheus underlined in deep red, bracketed by red hearts, the lettering slightly mangled and spotted by the photocopy job. 

"furthermore, the romantics were preoccupied with the sublime-- not that which was traditionally beautiful, but awesome, terrifying." 

I felt a bit better, that the unassuming state of my visage might be yet compensated by the deep romanticism of the fringe at which I exist. A shitty attempt at consolation over the paradox of simultaneously going unnoticed yet perpetually standing out, but a validating thought nonetheless. 

I thought of the fearsome depths of the lapis of the dream king's eyes, what had I meant to him? Mere dalliance? Symbolic union of the subconscious? I realized that the word sublime articulated the inexplicable draw I found in the eyes of certain strangers, a trait I appreciated more than the common pulchritude of the herculean youths that made up my frequent encounters in this place. 

I waited for word about the journal as I walked to the nearby coffeeshop between classes. Once inside, I ventured to skim through the book of romantic texts we'd been assigned to look over. I hoped that the journal might finally act an an inciting artifact that would propell me into a fate of intrigue and mystery. Whether it would, I was unsure of, but I felt optimistic enough. My eyes flitted to one of the thin, vellum like pages of the volume.  To A Little Invisible Being Who Is Expected Soon To Be Visible. I hoped it would be the case. 

"ah! Come in." I did as he said, taking the chair he indicated towards after sighting my looming figure in the doorway, a hand braced against the frame I had knocked on. I took the chair not occupied by wry papers and books. The office was small in a quaint way one would expect of an academic, the two visible from the rain spattered window. I took the chair, setting my belongings on the ground beside me. He was intimidating, not in stature or visage but with the unwavering gaze in which he met my eyes. His eyes, I could tell, read people with the same analytical quality one would regard prose with. I imagined what he read as I took intervals in breaking eye contact. A woman with a strange boyish gait, swallowed by a leather jacket with aversive eyes and a young face that was too gamine to be defined exactly as pretty. Someone who despite the spikes and brooding gaze assumed the nervous posture of a scolded child when observed too closely.     His eyes looked at me with neither definitive consequence or malice, I could not ordain what he saw, but I was aware I was being read nonetheless. When I was not spoken to I sat placidly in thought. His leather satchell sat by the desk, strewn rather than places on the cropped carpeted floor. It was very fitting, I remembered thinking. 

"How are you liking the readings?"

"I enjoy them." I replied, not sure whether to elaborate on what was perhaps a cue for me to fill the silence. I found my voice being squeezed a out of my chest, strained an octave higher than ordinary. I could tell thus far that he was juxtaposing my withdrawn demeanor to how he previously knew me; someone who's gaze did not waver when at a comfortable distance. I hoped he chalked it up to the awkwardness of youth, not that he was somehow privvy to the depths to which I wished to crawl out of my own skin. 

His regard was warm, more personable than I expected. I wished I were someone who could interact without the unease accompanying oversompensatory social dissection. Every conversation felt like a rehearsed and poorly preformed piece by someone never meant to be an actor, much less the stage. I imagined all the times my mask slipped when I smiled too long, or didn't smile at all, my eyes darted off somewhere, my mouth twitched. I knew that most did not look that closely, my preformances were passable, enough to get me by. Most people looked without seeing. He, I could tell, saw.                                                                                                                                          I could tell from the way his speech slowed as he looked into my eyes that he was reading something strange. I wished I were not so strange. 

"stay dry." I laughed, glacing outside the window as I slipped on my jacket. 

"I'll try. Though I don't think that'll be the case." I murmur to which he laughed. 

"At least I'll be walking into the rain, Like Byron." He laughed once more and I departed much like I had come. Swiftly and quietly (though less soaked by rain). 

I wiped relish from my fingers as I situated my gas station acquisition into a hotdog bun. "Hello" I heard from beside me. Assuming it to be an employee, I answered back similarly until turning. I grinned. "well look who it is." 

The woman, another worker from the archives, laughed. 

"I saw you in here and came in to tell you, I've got your journal." 

My mouth dropped open. 


"I don't know if it's any good." She warned as I placed a few napkins into the cardboard single-use tray. "His family donated it in the 90s. I skimmed through it, the handwriting is legible at least.I'm having it transferred to the lab, it should be there by tuesday for you to take a look" 

I laughed. "You're fulfilling a childhood dream of mine. I can finally cross off 'finds mysterious journal detailing paranormal events' off my bucket list" I laughed. 

"we'll see." She waved me off as I went to pay for my chicken torpedo, renewed at the porspect of occult adventure. The prospect of the highly strange and sublime assuaging the contemplation of my own nature, bringing me a sense of belonging I never experienced with my fellow man. It took a distraction as grandiose as the supernatural to assauge my own personal torment, to bring romantic purpose to what would otherwise be a lonely incident of youth.

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