Then, now and later

14 year old T and H meet.

T is wearing a green cape and a greener cap. Otherwise he is dressed in a staid grey mail with a funky belt. He looks menacing, albeit young, with his silver ruby-encrusted sword, dazzling with the moon beams of the elvish magic shops. He claims to be a knight, the elvish knight, Azrael, of the First Order, come to rid our world of the black one. The black dragon named Brexon. H smiles. His usual, with jam and butter. He introduces himself as Sandalf the purple. He wears dull clothes of a dark blue hue which seems to overwhelm him enveloping all parts of his body except his left hand, which holds a wooden staff purchased for a grand from the peddlers gnomes in the Olde Forest. He looks funny. So does T. They take the Eurodean Oath of Allies and are on their way. One to free the beast and the other to kill the beast.

22 year old T and H meet.

T is wearing a pink banker's shirt. The one with the white collar and french cuffs. He checks his mail from his blackberry, and with his right hand takes a sip of deliciously insipid coffee. He talks of inner peace, of karma, of nirvana, of happiness and of purpose. H sits beside him, typing something on his laptop. A mail. He joins in the conversation every couple of minutes expressing his humble points of view. H is wearing an extremely boring blue shirt and black trousers, like always. They live reality. Yearning to escape. Yearning for freedom. Yearning for excitement. But the time's not right. The time's never right. It once was. It once was always right. But now it's never right.

30 year old T and H meet.

T is wearing red. Bright red. H is wearing yellow. Yucky yellow. They looked loud together. But as superheroes they didn't have time to really bitch about their outfits. They had time for doughnuts now and then, but T had to watch it - he was on a diet. Y was always giving him active feedback which weighed heavily on his mind. H was beyond such worldly things. He was too experienced for this to matter. He thought so. Poor soul. The world was waiting, feverishly, for T and H. The global problem of boredom was spirally out of control every day. Television was made illegal 5 years ago. Sports was restricted to golf and belching. T and H were the only ones who could help. Blog, dammit, blog.

We're back,
H

PS: Get well soon T!