(or the Most Curiously Interesting Profile of

Lord Roanullario Hall

of Middle-Classically Shit-pervious Medway, in Cunt, where all the absolute Kents live.

Roan entered the room with the same sense of spontaneity as ever. He always manages to return at the very point, in his absence, where I have almost forgotten that we live with a shadow called Roan. As ever, we have no idea where he has just been nor what he’s been doing. To my fellow house mates and myself, all that he ever does with his frequent disappearing act is “personal things.” His ambiguously-angled grin, which is a constant companion to this phrase, is the greatest part of the trick; once we see it, we cease to question his previous whereabouts.

His outdoor attire – a slimly tailored winter-coat, made of an expensively smooth-yet-firm black material – would suggest a man who has much more than a mere maintenance loan to spend. However, once he removes this garment, which he must have stolen from some billionaire’s spoilt offspring whilst they were shooting foxes, his true identity of an ex-teenager learning to be an adult is revealed. For, under this rich-kid shell, lies the greased-and-creased hoodie, t-shirt and jeans that beg like starving children for a wash. This look is complimented by his straight-but-unaligned hair, which resembles the tip of a regularly used paintbrush.

As soon as he has invited himself to sit on the end of my bed, he immediately manages digress from “how’s it going?”, to the existential epiphanies that he had when watching a science documentary at four in the morning. The frequent waves of emphasis in fascination conveys a genuine sense of understanding and respect of how small his place is in the grand scheme of all reality. It is no wonder that he always behaves in such a calm state of being, as his speaking rate of seven words per minute shows today, when he shrinks his and the world’s problems in correspondence to the overwhelming size of the universe.

There is also a slow-but-sharp streak of confidence that travels alongside this philosophical discussion. Roan does not hide behind his pair of bronze-rimmed, rectangular glasses; he uses them as a platform for people to see into what he is talking about. For example, even when his mind creates a fact or concept that he has completely pulled out of his behind, the bulk of knowledge with which he explains it to me has me very well-persuaded. Of course, with him being a keen politics student, I shouldn’t at all be surprised by this quality.

He digresses further to discuss his lectures that day. In an environment of politically-charged students, of whom have been conducted in a vast number of directions, Roan admits that he is the black sheep in a very loud and boisterous flock. Indeed, his comments suggest to me that the “passionate” contributions of others can often drain his own passion towards the subject. His ears take a regular dosage of students’ political nativity: an overdose that he clearly struggles to tolerate. Still, all of these matters eventually shrink into the infinite cosmos of Roan’s vast and bizarre universe, which is what I admire about him the most. Within his desperately radical climate, Roan is actually the most radical of them all… by not being radical at all. He knows that you aren’t influencing any real change by just competing to see who can shout their idea the loudest in a seminar room; how comparatively small one thought told to an audience of thirty really is, when put against the hulking size of the world.

Roan’s way of thinking is something that many fools of this world could learn from. It is a surprisingly sane approach to life, in spite of the being that it’s sourced from appearing to be very much the opposite, and I mean “opposite” most sincerely. However, no matter how small he may consider his own existence with this way of thinking, I’d advise that Roan never underestimates how definitively and wonderfully unique his “little” occupation of our reality really is.

Horsey

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