eloquence; matty healy.

noun, 1. The practice or art of using language with fluency and beauty.

Matthew Timothy Healy embodied eloquence with every step he took, every phrase he scribbled into his journals, every lyric he spoke. And maybe this was toxic, but maybe it was a good kind of poison that I craved. The kind that draws you in, the kind that leaves you on edge. He was a drug, killing me softly, yet releasing an addictive pleasure through every vein.


1. 1.

We absorb the world bestowed around us. 

My Grandmother had the Beatles, my mother had the Rolling Stones; I was bond to have some sort of drive to the world of music and the operation of boy bands. It's in my blood. 

Something about the way they moved, I guess. How each audible speck of noise escaping their lips triggered something inside the audience. The way the sound bombed through the speakers, how the fogged atmosphere and dark lighting drove a steaming adrenaline rush. I was brainwashed with the world of rockstars, more specifically by one named Matthew Timothy Healy. 

When I was 15, I would listen to this black and white album on loop for hours on end. Why had this grown man captivated every sense of thought? I had my phases with previous boys in bands, whom had completely hypnotized me with curls and emerald eyes, but they were lacking the emotion I hadn't realized I craved so much, something Matty contained so vividly in every art he released. He took his life and made it into something everyone could feel in their hearts, only temporarily. He took a simple, lonely life and made it feel like a thriving masterpiece.

He was so much older than me, roughly ten years. Yet he embodied so much youth in himself, something incredibly rare and exciting. Something about his maturity and his way of worlds, the way he wasn't afraid to speak of anything and everything. He embraced his insecurities with his genuine approach to society. He reflected every decision I made, as if he was in the back of my mind guiding me in my dramatic era of youth. I had never met him, never seen him physically, but I was in love with him. I loved this figure he presented among people, among the world. 

By college, my mind was consumed with everything but the dreamy boy with sleepy eyes and a mop of curls. His worlds still lit excitement in my heart when I pushed in my earphones, but it merely existed as delusion.

"Get out a sheet of paper and take this down" my professors voice echoed throughout the lecture room. My hand was unsteady as I crammed the instructions on a ripped sheet of paper given by a boy next to me, who shook his head for my unorganized ways. 

"You will be giving a thirty minute persuasive lecture on a pop culture icon of your choice. Your job will be to distinguish what makes this person seem sane, something unusual. Everything you wish to discuss is up to you, but if any of you pick Justin Bieber, I'll fail you. That is all you will receive of instruction, good luck. See you on your final."

And in a heartbeat, our dusty-looking professor was out of the room, leather bag and all. Everyone scurried down out the door, I attempted to cram as much as I could into my bag before leaving the room and approaching the Los Angeles rain. Very rare, but I cherished it while it last. 

I walked back to my dorm, fiddling with my headphones with my hands in my coat pocket. I had absolutely no clue on who to do this lecture on, and I needed to make up my mind quick. I was limited with my time. A familiar song began on my playlist titled Fallingforyou by the 1975, an image of this boy I once knew lingered in my mind once again.

My roommate Lynn was slouching on our couch when I opened the door.

With a bag of Cheetos in her hands and a beer in the other, she muttered, "What are you smirking about?"

"I think I know who I'm going to speak about for the anthro final."

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