The Man of Glass

Once when I were a boy, I knew very little of the world and the weight of what the things I spoke had truly carried. I spoke words that I didn't quite understand, I threw around phrases that I now greatly find myself ashamed of. I were never concise nor careful of most things I said, and the world ended up punishing me for that. I suppose I should tell you how I'd gotten here, understanding that words are- quite the detestable thing- frankly. I discovered, as a young lad, that word could paint far more than colors and canvas ever could- at least, in such a concise yet vastly interpretable manner. I suppose a good number of things, might I affirm, that happened in my youth, aren't important enough to mention. Suppose I'll start by assuring you I weren't always a loose-lipped fellow--aroused by every precisely dressed young lady with a voluptuous bust and extenuated bustle. I were a young lad who had no appetite for such vices, rather, I were quite the curt and unpopular kind of fellow. I had very few acquaintances and even lesser friends.

When I were that young man I found myself rather repulsed by the arts, no honeyed word, dance, song, nor painting would make me think otherwise. Frankly, I fret I missed many divine experiences because of that. I suppose it cannot be helped, I can't go and change the past. When I were still that man, you could've shown me Ruben or Davinci and I would likely respond with little more than a curt, disinterested nod. I weren't much for words either, oh no, how I hated speaking. I could write if it were asked of me, or recite a full thesaurus, but I promise you that that young fellow hadn't entirely understood a word in his life. Upon this American soil, I'd trekked far from my home to pursue my goal, but it weren't a dream cultivated by a young boy, oh no, because if it were I'm sure I'd have cared more about words and their less academic definitions; rather, I were a cold machine of a young man who simply allowed his aptitudes to dictate his decisions.

I took to my studies, as imprudent as always, and if I were to continue forth, you'd likely get bored and leave. I wouldn't blame you, most of my class had abandoned their studies rather quickly, whittling down from a grand three hundred students to a pitiful forty-three. What is it I studied you may ask? Well, the irony was that I wanted to be a linguistics expert. Truly, a man who had never entirely understood what a word meant wanted to work with them. How quaint. I made few friends, but one lad I felt quite the affinity for.

Like me in every way he was, a few years older than I, as he were already a doctor. If you were to ask me now how I felt about him, I wouldn't say I have the same affinity now as I had then. He'd proved to be quite the repulsive gentleman. He worked as a medical examiner, and he'd allow me into his lab after usual hours for some extra more in-depth instruction. I'm afraid I took it as no warning then how at peace with himself he appeared with a scalpel and a corpse. I'm afraid I don't like reminiscing about him, and he's mildly unimportant, at least for now.

It were about halfway through that first year when I'd begun interning at a local forensics agency, and within that place, I'd started learning the truth behind words.

She were a young woman, well put together and quite bright-eyed. She gleamed with a sort of self-importance that never teetered into narcissism, which in some way made her charismatic. She spoke firmly- like a speech at times- always with the same incredible and respectable dictum; but when you spoke to her directly, her voice fluttered and flirt- like the feathers of a bird, her words danced rhythmically like a poem or a song. On some days she spoke somber, her gaze firm yet longing, and her words rung cold, yet beautiful and wise, like a choir in the hall of a great man's wake. When I first met her I thought her words were but a farce, a dream-driven young woman who wanted to sound wise and profound, and yet- I discovered quickly that they were not veneered at all. They were her art, her favorite art.

I hadn't understood at the time, of course, how could I? In her shadow, I were but a scholar, a boy with a blunt tongue and an absence of secondary lyrical thought. I used words as they were prescribed and nothing more, and in some way I envied her. I had no art, my words were no beautiful dance, song, nor painting. To me, they were words, objective parts, with meanings and definitions defined only by others like themselves cultivated from a lexicon that I feel I had no right to use! Words! To me they were descriptors of the world, blatant, cold, just as I were, without further definition than the one prescribed to it by some academic- and yet, I envied her. I envied her visage, I envied her mind, I envied her thoughts, her dreams, her everything. If I weren't such a fool then I would've realized that I loved her- but I were a fool, and I were blunt, curt, and cold. I thought I resented her because speaking to her made me realize she were everything I were incapable of being.