Josh Howard

Beneath the Cerulean Sky

You don't love someone because they're perfect, you love them in spite of the fact that they are not. Merritt Palmerston constantly ponders on such wise words of Jodi Picoult, even if he believes that they do not apply to him. Hanging just above the bathroom sink, a large looking glass reflects a charismatic, dirty-blond guy with eyes of azure and a razor sharp jaw who is blossoming in his early twenties; that reflection becomes entangled from the distortion of a turbulent mind, ravaged by the storms of depression and self-doubt. His mind often assures him that he will forever remain alone on the roller coaster that is life. Why would he even deserve love, he often thinks to himself. No one would ever love him, such a devastating whirlwind of emotional, damaged goods. That's right, he thinks to himself, he is damaged goods, tossed aside by a society bent on the perfection of Instagram influencers. He picked up a comb in an attempt to tame his thick mane of rebellious hair. Although it is cut in a fashion that he can style it like a quiff, such attempts are always futile; it always manages to find a way to become disheveled, befitting of his meandering fate of life full of unrelenting disappointment. He eventually managed to form some sort of style resembling the quiff and walked into his chambers to retrieve his knapsack. His first day of winter semester at the Institute of Archaeology at the University of the Highlands and Islands in Orkney starts today, and barring any unpredictable, yet completely predictable misfortune for him, he did not wish to be late. He tossed the emerald green knapsack over his shoulders, exited the tiny cottage, and made his way to class on foot.