More Strong Than Time

        There was a boy. There were so many boys in fact but there was this one boy in particular with his almost smouldering eyes, the colour of liquid mercury and his go-to-hell smirk. He was, to say the least, a riddle. He was the kind of boy that girls go crazy for and fathers tried to keep their daughters from. He was an enigma. He was kind but he was arrogant. He was smart but he was ignorant. He could smile and laugh one minute and he could get broody for days on end. He was a poet. He used to write the most heart-wrenchingly beautiful poems. His writing was incredible. If there was one thing, I admired about him it was his writing. It was thought provoking, always riddled with this sense of death and loneliness. It also had a sense of quiet rage with it. He could make you question everything you’ve ever believed in. He had that incredible talent of making you believe everything that came from his mouth, be it be true or deceit.

        We used to paint the town red. I mean literally paint the town red. We would cover the walls and billboards with graffiti just to piss people off. We weren’t even that good at it in fact we were quite horrible at it. We may both be writers but we were shit artists. We didn’t even know how to hold a brush properly. We loved art though. We used to go to art museums and just stay there for hours and just stare. He was utterly mesmerised with anyone who could capture emotions in colour and picture form.

        He loved rock and roll. He had the most amazing collection of records. We used to just sit out on the roof of his apartment with the record player playing Rubber Soul or Rumours or whatever else we happen to come across and just lay there staring at the stars. He would point out constellations and tell me the story of how they came to be. He was mesmerising. I hung onto his every word as if my life depended on it and maybe at the time it did. He was the only thing keeping me sane at the time. He taught me everything I knew about poetry and writing. He had this simplicity to his writing that I loved. He was a stylistic genius. He used to read Victor Hugo to me. I loved the way his voice sounded in French. Victor Hugo was, is my favourite writer.