This flower is one that many people rightfully adore and have come to love so very dearly. It would be incredibly insane and moronic to not be entranced by this flower. The Hydrangea has been a wonderful flower for schoolchildren to use in experiments for the dreaded event known as the science fair. Hydrangeas change color based on soil acidity.
When the pH is below seven, otherwise known as acidic, the flower tends to be a bluer flower. When the pH is above seven, otherwise known as basic, then the flower tends to be a pinker flower. Yet, the white Hydrangeas are typically the most beautiful and pristine ones.
It is worth noting that the flower is layers of tiny petals. The flower itself seems to be a bouquet of many smaller flowers. This is something very beautiful, in my opinion.
Of course, there are two main ways the Hydrangea can appear; mophead and lacecap. While mophead sounds like a made-up name, it is a real type. These are the more common ones that people grow, that look like a rounded ball of flowers all scrunched up together. They are the ones many choose to grow. The lacecap flowers look amusing. In the center, they have shorter, sparser flowers. On the outside, bold flowers with four large petals are present. They are odd.
It does no good, however, to say that one must be significantly better than the other based on something arbitrary like appearance. I hate it when people do that, especially to each other. It is so offensive, to treat people simply as though they are prizes to be scored and then won.
There was this fool I met three years ago and have not forgotten as readily as I wished to. In fact, I can still see his features very well. I wish that he could be easily forgotten. He was not the worst in many aspects. In many ways, he was actually one of the best. In others, the worst.
For instance, he frequently chose to rank girls based on attractiveness. It would not have been so terrible if he had not kept a running list and assigned rankings to each of them. As a matter of fact, he gave everyone points. He went as far as giving each body part its very own number and scale on which to place it. Even worse, girls were fighting to be the best.
I always hated that girls were fighting over it. They should have been appalled by it. Instead, they were pushing and shoving each other every morning in the mirror just so they could look the best. They even made sure that they looked better than the girl next to her.
The guys should not have participated, either. They were each with a list of their own and proudly showed it off. They should not have been so proud. Unfortunately, a fall did not follow their pride as the saying would have suggested. It would have made more sense to me if they had all been the types of guys who normally stirred up trouble. Rather, it was many sweet and kind guys who were partaking in the fun. The one who had started it all made bets out of it all.
He simply loved to make a game out of anything. He was there and let everyone bet on who would be the top and who would be the bottom. He was making a game out of telling people that they were only worth what they looked. It was revolting. I hated him for it.
I wondered if there were guys like that here, in this town called Thornburgh. It was not much of a town, but it was somewhere full of people. People could be cynical, as that boy had proven to me all those years ago. And, in a town full of people who all knew each other’s middle names, I assumed, then the people who wanted to mean would be a lot more mean.
It was the main reason which I used when I went on my many hunts to discover more and more about the mystery man who had hidden away all of his art. It could lead to something wonderful that many people would talk for years to come about. Or it could be nothing.
The guy with shaggy hair and tattered clothes was still smiling at me. I wondered what he was doing, choosing to go ahead and befriend me. It was a mistake of a choice. Hopefully even someone who had just met me could see that. Hopefully an artist with a brain would notice.
He was persistent in his quest to make sure that I became a fan of the art. It was cute, to see him have such a fondness for it. It almost made me consider the idea that he was not exactly who he claimed to be. Then again, who am I to determine such things about him?
Here was this beautiful stranger who had wanted me to have met him sooner, maybe due to selfish reasons and maybe due to selfless ones. I wondered where he had been when I was trying so hard to come up with the proper way to continue on with this. Had I met him sooner, I may have been able to get to the house much more quickly. It may have been better.
Yet, if I had met the stranger earlier on, then I may never have met Ricky, which would be a complete shame and waste of my time. He was the one who got me inspired in the entire project of figuring out Steven’s life. Without Ricky, I may not have ever stayed here.
The stranger shared my desire to solve a mystery but seemed to not share my keenness for everything that was around. He had a nice smile and a charming disposition. This may have been enough to persuade many a girl to go crazy, but I believed that I knew better. I was not unwilling to dive in head first, but was reluctant to do so. He reminded me of rude people.
While it is unfair to say that because he reminds me of those who were rude that he must too be rude, my theory is not crazy. Chances are that I know what I’m talking about and that the guy is someone that I would not exactly want to become close to. Yet, there is the wonderful chance that I am horribly wrong. I hope I’m horribly off. I want him to be a nice person.
He is looking at me and has a quizzical manner to his gaze. I wondered if it was natural or if it was always as he was. It could have been for better reasons, but I was neither daring enough nor caring enough to inquire. It was just that I had only just met him. We were just starting to become friends. I knew that asking such a tedious question could only ruin things.
He certainly had a nice way of just being there. I wondered if he was someone I had met before. He was one of those people who looked familiar to everyone he encountered. Some people are well-known and others just look like those who are well-known.
The way his hair fell and shone against the light looked like something straight out of an art gallery. This may explain why he seems so familiar. People who look like they could be a painting or a still frame from a popular film tend to be that way. Same if one is photogenic.
There was a piece of me that wished he would speak up and say something. I was not willing to open the sketchbook again and have him tell me what I should think. Of course, he may also be able to point me in the right direction. He might be the one person who knows what any of the many blank pages mean. He could tell me if there is a method to the madness.
I badly wanted to shove the booklet in his face and ask him to tell me what it meant. I wanted to see if he had some great rationale for all the pages. He said that he believed that there were things that prompted an absurd explanation. If this were the truth, then, if I were to hand to him the sketchbook full of blank pages covered with sheets of notebook paper, then he would happily explain it all to me with a crazy story full of wonderful tall tales. I would love that.
Yet, the silence is calming but also bothersome. I did not want him to be able to be with me without saying a word. What did this accomplish? It accomplished nothing, that’s what it accomplishes. Saying nothing results in nothing. I did not come out here in the middle of the dead of night, day after day, for nothing. It means that I have accomplished absolutely nothing.
I can’t believe myself, getting all worked up over someone like this. He should mean nothing to me and yet he means so much more. I’m crazy. I never should have started this. I should have known that this would happen. Why did I even begin this crazy adventure?