Virtuous Soles: A Namjoon Short story

Sole, Soul, Seoul?

    His pumas were the first thing I notice. They lead your eye up his tall stature and his lanky limbs were accentuated by the angle of the camera. As he sits on an old dark-wood bench, the natural sunlight shines lovingly around him. He appears like an angel, warm in his oversized baby blue coat. Perhaps he is as sweet as an angel too.

His black brimmed hat and loose black and white striped shirt match esquisicly, and contrast the small peak of skin that allows you to see his joyous eyes (though shaded lightly by his bulky, hipster glasses) and proud nose. Behind him sits rows of books displaying a different language, more than likely in his language. In the window behind him more novels can be seen, as well as his own reflection.

You could easily distinguish that he felt comfortable around these vast amounts of knowledge and his intelligence can be read in his dark eyes. He seemed a man much too young for such comprehension. His unscuffed, tan shoes were in pristine condition and didn't reveal to me his previous destination, although I like to imagine. His shoes also didn't tell me how he acquired these philosophies.

With its extremely traditional appearance, I imagine that the building he sits under differs strikingly with his newfound ideas. Yet a cinder block under his feet gives off a feeling of casualty.

One can never observe, from just a glance at his pumas, the life he has led, or the one he is creating. But what I can see, although hidden behind a soft, knit scarf, was a content smile. One that has gone unaware of its charms.

I felt inspired, artistic, aesthetic. My reaction to him was oddly extreme considering he lives thousands of miles away, and in many ways even farther from me. We had never met, but I knew him, or I thought I did. I felt it was wrong to be so unaware of his true character so I invented him, created him from only a snapshot in time.

When I stare at this man, taking in every detail, I create a story in my mind. Who he is, what he does, and how he wants to be. It inspired so much thought, I set it as my lockscreen. I want others to think about it too.

I imagine that the fall weather had mostly kept him indoors, but his nesseinent need for coffee, real coffee (not the stuff at home), had driven him into the newly chilly weather. Although he leads his life as a homebody with little interaction with others, he is not antisocial. He's friendly, and many want to know him due to the intelligent aura that draws you in. I can feel it even through a completely different dimension that separates us, in this particular matter, that being my phone screen.

He walked in his new puma shoes to the cafe down the street. It was quaint and it was quiet and he loved it. The air smelled of all things delicious and as his new shoes strolled into the happy little space, he felt calm. He stopped in the doorway just to take in the sights of his second home. A place where he felt at peace was simple necessity, one that others often neglect.

The little white tables meant to sit two or four litter the space in a pattern meant to please. The floor is a caramel colored wood and the walls a mellow yellow. Much like him, this little cafe gave off a sort of incandescent quality that attracts. This reigns true too however, the brighter the light, the darker the shadow.

He walks to the barista and gives his order; there was no line. His day seemed all too perfect when the coffee was made in less then a minute. He's so incredibly happy to be where he is today. It's all thanks to hard-work and his driving need to feel good enough.
When he was young kids weren't the nicest. He was always giraffe sized but skinny, this made him different. This made him a target. That's okay though, he's happy with himself.  When his father left him to be raised by his mother, he overcame his bout of depression because he loves himself. Its okay, everything is okay. Despite what he's been through, he's got his coffee and his new puma shoes.

He leaves the cafe for a quick stroll before he huddles himself up back at home. He breathes in the fresh smells of late september and stumbles across a little alcove, a reading nook, full of books and a comfy bench. It immediately catches his attention and he goes to sit down, lounging back and reading the titles. His shoes the only part of him sticking out onto the sidewalk. The sunlight shines down upon him, bouncing off the window holding his content reflection. His shoes are pristine, the laceses are still that milky white. Only he knows where he's been, and that's okay. Just his existence is enough for me, my mind does the rest.