Passionate

passion

We’re sitting in my room. It’s a small space, but it’s enough. Every object has its place; the bed against the window, the dresser and desk adjacent to that, a thin rug in the center of the room, a bean bag chair in the corner. Pictures and tapestries adorn the walls. It feels like home.

Sun streams through the window blinds, little columns of light brightening the bed you’re lying on. I usually don’t let others make themselves so comfortable in my space. After all, it’s my space. But you’re the exception. You always are.

I sit in the bean bag chair, the furthest thing from the bed, though that’s still not very far given the small size of the room. The large, squishy material engulfs my frame. I fold up into the chair, resting my head against the fabric and crossing my arms against my knees. I watch you from that distance, watch how you lay in the sunlight, eyes closed, hands folded across your chest, legs splayed on top of the blankets. Peaceful.

You’re talking about your favorite thing in the world: your latest project. You love what you do, always love talking about your craft, can talk about it for the rest of eternity.

And I usually let you ramble on about it. Some might find it boring. Some might find you selfish, not only dominating my space, but dominating the conversation, as if I’m not there.

But it’s the moments when you pause, when you tilt your head away from the sun and open your eyes and look over at me, as if making sure I’m still there, still listening. Why wouldn’t I be? It’s the moments when you apologize because you always do.

“Sorry I’m here, rambling on again. I’m just so excited.”

‘It’s fine. I always like hearing about what you do. Tell me more.’

“You really sure you want to hear more about it? Are you really not bored?”

‘You’re fine. I’m fine.’

It’s when you smile at me after those moments, a silent thank-you that doesn’t need to be spoken. And I give a small smile back because I mean every single word of what I said. I will always want to know more.

You tilt your head back against the bed, close your eyes, and continue to speak.

You describe everything with such force, delving into the details and giving background when appropriate. You have such a positive spirit, electrifying the air with energy and excitement. Even when I’m not looking at you, I can feel the underlying smile as you speak. Your voice feels enthusiastic. It feels passionate. It feels happy.

You are happy.

I close my eyes, and if possible, fold myself further into the bean bag. I let your voice wash over me, feeling an inexplicable calm, unable to keep a small smile off my face.

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12 thoughts on “Passionate

  1. That was a good read, I could visualise that room so well, the bed sitting on a wooden floor, knarled wood, sun streaming through the windows highlighting little bits of dust in the air, the bean bag with you on it, making those sounds that bean bags make when you move on them, the pictures and tapestries on the wall. Great stuff.

  2. I think the best part of it is that I gave enough detail to help the reader imagine the room, but I didn’t give it all away, so everyone is essentially imagining a different room (for example, the room I imagined had a carpeted floor).

  3. absolutely, that is the kind of things I love in posts. One of the main reasons I thought wood was because you had a rug in the room 🙂

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