He’s a graying, older man. He is crazy, weird, temperamental, all the above. His methods are madness, but they have reason. He’s painfully old-fashioned–sticking to the flash on his DSLR to take pictures and pieces of paper to make reminders for himself and flip phones to text you. His emotions run wild more often than not, exploding with happiness and enthusiasm and sinking with dejection and displeasure.
Seeing him weep in sorrow breaks your heart, bringing uncontrollable tears to your eyes to pair with the anchor chained to your heart at the thought of leaving his side, leaving his classroom, the place where you learned to become who you are meant to be and accept it.
I miss the old fart.
I never would have picked up a book again had he not inspired me to. Then I never would have tried out creative writing. And I certainly never would have dreamed of starting a blog–a blog about my personal thoughts and stories.
He was the one person I had an easy time talking to in the most difficult times of my life.
He let me express myself however I felt, no limits, no boundaries, nothing to stop me in or out of however far the eyes of my imagination could see.
In my last week of his class, he wept almost uncontrollably in front of the entire class, admitting shamelessly that he would miss us all.
And after walking across the stage that bittersweet 30th of May, he gave me a sincere hug and congratulated me, reducing me to tears of sorrow and grief.
I love that old man.