Nostalgia

Unsub #792347

The first word thing that comes to mind when I think of this person is his manners. It seems as if it was something ingrained deep in his upbringing till now. You don't have to be a psychologist or some behavioral expert to know the person in front of you is being genuinely nice. You just feel it and take a moment to appreciate it.


He's your hybrid of phlegmatic and sanguine, a person with influence where his peers rate him highly, if not better than themselves, oozing with charisma while also being pretty laid-back with a very affable nature. He won't cut you down and reject you the first time you meet him, instead if not a close acquaintance of this fellow, you'd just be on good terms with no bad blood in between.


With that in mind, while being on the best of terms with this guy is a great plus, you do not wish to be enemies with him. No keed. The influential character he possesses will bring the common society between you two against you in particular, much like opposing a social worker, so unless you can measure up to the EQ on display or you just love to be a loner with no friends, you're better off just getting along.


If I had a message to this person, besides revising it over and over again to rid of anything incriminating, I'd say I really like you, I believe you have a bright future, you're intelligent while at the same time possess the social intellect many smart people assume they've already mastered. But you have to start mixing with the right friends, you can't progress any better than the people you mix around with, and it's already an issue if you're miles, if not eons better off than your pals. I wish you all the best, control your emotions, and stay cool. Peace.


Do you know who he is?

Purgation

"I'm already here. Where are you?"

Matt hesitated sending the text message. It sounded too clingy, too annoying, the kind you get from a silly child incessantly tugging at your sleeve for attention. Then again, he was going to leave for a couple of years and probably wouldn't be seeing her again.

He sent the message on its way.

"I'm here." To his surprise, it didn't came in text but instead as a voice from behind him.

Matthew looked up, as if she was in front of him. He fiddled with his phone and pulled the earpieces off his ears, trying to occupy himself as he got up and turned round.

"Um, hey," was all Matt could say, still struggling to force the phone down his back pocket. He was hunched over and had his hands groping his rear rather awkwardly, and it made good entertainment for some onlookers.

Her included.

Matt could make out a stifled laugh from all the commotion, and he had no doubt from whom it came from. Isabella was still standing, waiting for Matt to get himself settled, her left hand concealing a giggle. Matthew wanted to quickly continue and shake off the empathy he was getting.

"Why don't we walk for a bit?" Matt suggested, still red-faced. He had been contemplating what to say, but he decides, against his better judgement, to ditch whatever makeshift script he had printed in his mind and play it by ear. Matthew wasn't one to fake things, and definitely not now.

Isabella was content to follow whatever Matthew had in mind. After receiving an invitation to the park by text, she figured he probably had something in mind that needed expressing. After all, he is leaving for London in a couple of days. She wasn't due for home for some time anyway.

The path Matt chose was, in a nutshell, a narrow trail of flat stones that led through the park, a path preferred by cyclists. Matthew knew this, and trudged along the grass as Isabella took more effortless steps on the rocks, while the occasional cycling enthusiast whizzed by, too fast to overhear their conversation, at the same time deterring other curious walkers from hanging around.

For a moment, the two walked in silence, Matthew busying himself kicking a small pebble as he walked along, while Isabella silently watched, waiting for him to tell her why she was here. Soon, Matt gave up on the pebble and cleared his throat.

"So anyway, thanks for agreeing to come. I didn't think you would, you know," Matt started.

"Let's not go there, Matt. We've been through it countless times already."

"I know. I don't wanna discuss that," Matt uttered in reply. He wasn't planning on leaving the damned place with more contrition.

"Anyway," Matthew continues, "You already know I'm gonna be leaving this place for a pretty long time, right?"

Isabella nodded slowly. Here we go, she thought to herself.

"Yeah. Anyway, I just thought I'd see you for a bit, you know?" Matt was trying as hard as possible to be honest but still cautious with his words. Any foolhardy sarcasm or irony wasn't about to help.

She didn't say anything for a while. Maybe she didn't catch the half question, maybe she just wanted to leave his sorry ass and go home, maybe she was thinking of something nice to say, maybe she nodded instead of saying something, Matt's mind was running amok.

"Isabella?" Matt urged, finally turning round and waving a hand in front of her glazed eyes.

"Yeah, yeah, I got that," she said laughingly. She broke gaze and brushed away his hand, thoroughly amused at Matt's edginess.

"So um, when do you leave for London?"

"Too soon?" Matt chuckled in reply. "I leave in a couple of weeks. Right now, I'm just trying to clean up my mess here before leaving."

"What mess are you trying to clean here?" Isabella queried.

"That's a long story, though."

Isabella strolled on and blocked off Matt's path, staring into him with her pleading brown eyes.

"Okay, okay, okay." Matt relented.

Unsub #587626

This is the description of a man I encounter everyday. Your average teen guy, an unhealthy obsession with fitness, extreme sports and general negligence of what matters at such a tender age as his.

You will see him everyday, but shrug him off as just another showy man with nothing underneath. And how. He takes part in the cool things and neglects the mainstream, and thinks himself a loner with no friends. Negativity is cool, he'd say to his friends people around him. That's what he thinks anyway. It's a bit of a tough statement to the people who entertain him on a daily basis because they're called his friends. He's a pushover. Pushovers are generally like that.

But he's different, this guy is. He believes he mixes around well, and gets along with everyone. And he does. His friends value him for who he is, an outgoing and affable man. He isn't well exposed, and doesn't take kindly to criticism. It seems professionalism and diplomacy is lost on him. Advice isn't well received either but then that's always typical of him. He occasionally reeks of insecurity too. So how does he tackle it?

Cover it up with a huge ego, of course. Plastering it all over the superficial stuff. Pity. All that's needed is a but more effort at improving himself. But then again, criticism isn't his cup of tea. Denial is such a horrible disease. Do I like him? I'd say so. I don't think he considers me somebody better than him though. Not that it matters, anyway. I've got bigger fish to fry.

Do I have a message for him? Sure man. If you're reading this, it's time to wake up and focus on the important shit you don't wanna regret neglecting. I can help you, but only if you help yourself. You may think I'm better than you and therefore don't give a damn, but I'm just trying to help. Pull yourself together, and let's get out of this hard place between the two rocks.

Do you know who he is?

Imagine Dragons - Radioactive

Flying

Silence blanketed the stadium like a blanket daintily dropped into the area. The runners were hunched down in their starting positions, awaiting the sound of the revolver pistol clapper to set them off. The tension choked in my lungs as the clapper was leveled before the two pieces of plywood were snapped into each other.

I hugged my legs tighter and watched on as the junior kids made their way through the 200 metres through the finishing line. The senior runners took refuge in the shade of the trees and eagerly anticipated the finish. I was too busy burying my head in my hands to notice who had won. Then it was the turn of the seniors.

I was initially dumbfounded as to which lane, but I found an empty lane where the others had taken theirs. The sixth lane put me visually in front, and I found myself thankful. A placebo never hurt nobody right?

The command was given to get ready. My hands were felt sticky on the ground, my arms locked (yeah bad move) at the elbows and a million things ran through my mind. The second command was given. Butts up. My head hung on the perch of my spine, and the butterflies are starting to find their way up my stomach. I grazed my feet on the red track, the spikes catching the grip and emanating a raspy scratch. Then the clapper went off.

The first few steps had already put me past the only guy I had in my sights. If the placebo was working, then holy shit it's working. I picked up the pace through the curve, left arms and limbs waving further, the steps hectic and the breathing more hectic. I've been through a lot of hectic stuff though, and this time the crowd at the grandstands took the cake, going manic with enthusiasm and noise. The home straight was looming ahead, and the empty track of red almost glistened against the sunlight.

It's all for the taking now.

Then a silhouette came into view from the corner of my left. Syakir emerged from one of the inner lanes, arms and legs pumping through into the lead. Following suit in another lane was Hadi, the green from his shirt almost protuberant against the swelteringly bright sun. He too, was running on pretty hard, barely keeping up behind my teammate, if not at all. The gap between us was about to open up, and the lactic acid was starting to engulf my body.

But all this was expected of course. The two were naturally dogged athletes, Syakir with the built physique and Hadi with the persistent stamina one would marvel at. I would, anyway. But I had good reason to believe I could take them on. Syakir had come into the race at the back of a 400m dash with three other guys in the relay event, and could only continue going on for so long, and Hadi, as good as he was, was only a junior stepping up to the senior events. I only had on them a pair of long legs and and an illusion of the lead fast evaporating, but I had to make it count.

I pumped on even harder, spurred on by that micron of a chance to get a gold. The crowd was going amok, their predictions on the eventual winners being made vocally clear through my right ear. I willed myself on past Hadi and with only Syakir to beat. The adrenaline was now starting to take over and my mind was turning into a frenzy, and ten final metres stretched ahead.

At this point, a 1-2 Wind finish was nothing but the best result, regardless of who came first. But per my overly competitive spirit, I would run myself to the ground to try and snatch pole position, only to fail to do so by a mere couple of seconds in second place. What's 400 metres to this guy, anyway, I thought. He's quite the remarkable athlete.

I avoided the trailing ribbon of red finishing line, before coming to a stop and bending over in prostration, quietly thanking Allah. I turned ahead to Syakir, who, on his knees and hunched over, looked half-dead from six hundred metres of sprinting. I made my way over and helped him on his feet.    We made our way back to the stands, exhausted.

Two more events to go, I thought. Two more shots at taking gold.