It is sad to me that my hero will never know what he has done for me. I wish he knew. I wish when he reached the end of his time, in some part of his mind, there was a tiny memory of the moment he discovered he saved me. I wish I could tell him how his life and artistry woke me up and rekindled my passion for existence.
It would be fine with me if he didn't care. I don't need to feel special or loved by him, I just want him to know that he affected me just like millions of other people. I am not the first to feel this way, nor will I be the last, but I was one of those people. Out of the clusters and clouds of trendsetters in their glassless eyewear, I stood amongst those sorts and unashamedly, I screamed. I screamed in a way I never scream otherwise, with a happier affect than I have ever exposed to even my closest loved ones.
I cried when I heard those words and saw what could only described as metaphysical birth of something one cannot touch, but only can feel. I wish my hero knew that feeling- or maybe he does. He doesn't know how I experience it, though. I wish he could feel MY skin tighten to my bones and the ache of my smile and eyebrows raised. The cramps in my calves as I stand on my tip toes because the front row is never enough. It's not the same as being as close to the microphone as his cuff links.
He should know how proud I was. How I didn't give in when the other kids, the other adults, my peers laughed at my devotion. As they called me weird and crazy. How I defended him and told them why he mattered, why his words meant so much, why he will not be forgotten. Why he should not be forgotten.
I will never forget the first time he inspired me and woke me from my internal defeat. Nor will I forget the movement of my hips as I escaped my end and discovered my redemption. He brought me back from the half dead; the half gone.
I walked through his hoops of wise words. Ones he threw into the universe with intricacies of data, etched into the youthful public minds. I escaped through the back door of the "norm" and I saw what he could reveal to me. What sheets he could pull away from a sacred child, and I learned. I listened. I explored. I need him to know how I have tried. My every attempt to keep up with his message, his prophecy, his dreams. I was always there taking notes and hoping through some osmosis, I too could flee the moment and create my own... something. I too can create poetry from the words others dare not say. On the other hand, I can laugh at chaos and open my life. mind. world. eyes to it.
He has pieced together this mind in infancy and raised it into a glowing being. The person I needed to be today. Someone that the world could not go on without. I only wish. I just wish my hero knew.