It is currently 4.15am, so really this is a story from yesterday but as I have not slept yet, it seems relevant to post this before I sleep, before today turns into tomorrow and before a new story of tomorrow is created.
This morning I finished my social psychology essay and submitted it before leaving to go to Manchester for castings. As I was waiting at the platform at the train station, I noticed the most beautiful boy sat on the bench also waiting. I decided to sit next to him - it was rather busy and I had fifteen minutes to kill so purchased a cup of tea and sat beside the mystery boy while I waited. He was beautiful. Early twenties, tall, dark, handsome. A little tanned. Not too dark, but a healthy glow, nothing more. He wore a casual shirt and jeans, had his iPod playing, and also had wonderful deep blue eyes. He just looked gentle. It is impossible to know too much about a person simply from their appearance but sometimes there is a certain unspoken vibe. Micro-communications. Mannerisms. The way they look at you, the way they look at others, and the way in which you can discover a little more about a person from their eyes.
At this point, I have to point out I am not a psychopath girl with stalker tendencies. I just happen like people. I find people endearing; especially those who have a little air of mystery about them. I believe it's a common theme of my writing - but really, where would we be without people? The world would be a somewhat mundane and ordinary lifeless planet without the beautiful people who offer a unique way of being.
Anyway - the story.
The train arrived at the station, there was of course a mad rush of people fighting over the spare seats. I stood up, and left the mystery boy still sat on the bench. He obviously was not heading to Manchester. I found a seat, sat down, and waited for the train to leave but it remained at the platform for an unusually long period of time. It was then, that I looked up to see at eye level a model book belonging to me. It was my book. In the crowd of people, I had left it on the platform. I looked further up to see who was holding it, and mystery boy had stopped the train from leaving to walk through the crowds of people on the train, find me, and return my book to me. I am aware this is just one small gesture that may be absolutely meaningless to the majority of people, but afterall - isn't it the smallest gestures that signify the largest meaning? I was taken aback not just because he honestly was beautiful. He didn't have to stop the train just to return my book to myself. But he did. He made me smile - and that, is just lovely.
If this was a romantic novel, he would perhaps find me again. We would meet again. Fate or coincidence, we would cross paths again, and who knows? The imagination knows no bounds. There are no limits to creativity. We can paint a picture, and that picture is as real as we believe it to be.
But life is life. And it is unfortunately not a romantic novel. It is not an idealized story that we create for ourselves and appropriately edit whenever we wish, whenever it becomes too unbearable to hold alone. But it is not to say that moments like this should be overlooked. I have a mind that sometimes gets a little carried away - probably made clear by the copious amount of writing I tend to do at times like this (4.30am). Stories like this are very much real life, and serve the purpose of reminding us that life is lovely and good. There are people out there who really make the world a better place. Even if that is bringing a smile to one person's face on one insignificant day for one small moment. The world is made a better place.
That is the story of today.