Capriccio

On the street around the corner in the town where you grew up, lives the most remarkable young man. He was not always extraordinary, mind you. Once, he ate peanut butter sandwiches, watched cartoons, and played in the dirt the same as any little boy.

How did he become remarkable, you may ask. He sort of grew into it like you do your father’s old baseball glove, gradually and with much anticipation.

At first, there was only a glimmer, then a flash. A returning flicker in the corner of his eye. Soon becoming all he could think, see, and hear.

At night, the moon and stars speak their whispers. The sun beams down its knowledge of the days. The grass and trees breath of life and love. The winter its woeful hope, the fall its breath of change, the summer its passion, the spring its vibrancy.

Poising over desk and ink, with pixies at his elbow, elves peeking ’round his blotter, he scrawls the little back wings. Magic dances across his fingertips whilst he captures the secrets of the worlds.

Pausing in his task, he raises the sheet, pleased. All the fancies of his mind agree and congratulate with a sparkling cheer. Rising, the young man dresses in black tails and makes for the dome in the glistening rain.

On one hand, masses of chiffon and gabardine, on the other, a sea of twittering, bellowing, and humming quiver the air.

With enigmatic certainty, he opens his heart, ushering the eager listeners into his land of adventure. Wielding emotions like a sword, he frightens them. Makes them laugh, makes them weep. He escorts them to the brink of themselves until each one is peering from a cliff into the distant beyond. A place so enticing, a place they can never quite reach.

In those fleeting moments, he bridges the space between the void of average existence and the reality of wonder.

And that, dear readers, is quite remarkable indeed.

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