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There was something missing...
I glanced up from my work, searching for the source until my eyes settled on the music box sitting on my desk. It was still. The lone piece of crystal had stopped moving.
Outside the window, the world was stilled in the time between dusk and evening, colouring everything in hues of orange and red. This time was often a time of reflection, attached with a feeling of sadness that was no longer a stranger to me.
Without a second thought, I reached out and took the fragile box in my hands, slowly turning the tiny wind up knob until it would turn no more. I replaced it on my desk, watching the crystal begin to twirl around on the mirror lake as the soothing tinkle of the music box shattered the silence that had fallen into the room.
There used to be two crystals dancing around one another... once upon a time. But now only one remained. I didn’t know what happened to the other, only knowing that it would be hard to find within this room that was partially cast in the shadows of the bookshelves and blinds.
I studied the music box for a while longer, before returning to my work. A half finished face stared back at me, the sole eye staring amusedly up at me with a slight quirk of its mouth, as if it were trying to smile.
Whilst music wafted about the room, I continued to draw out the hair. A twirl of a lock. Curled bangs. Pair an eye with the other.
One stroke after another. A small swipe of the eraser and then continue on with the quick, fluttering dance of the pencil against paper. Time was of no importance.
And whilst the soothing tinkle of music began to slow, I had slowed until finally, I set the pen down and stared at the drawing before me.
These faces that are so familiar to me. These beings that are so close to my heart. They were pieces of I. Pieces of I breathe ephemeral life through lead and ink, through thoughts and imagination. To create stories of their lives pleased me, lifted my spirits high even for a moment.
It was all that I had. It was all that I knew.
Sinking back into the worn chair, I sigh and threw the sketchbook carelessly onto the tabletop.
... That’s right.
There was only me in my world. Me and these creations of mine. No one else existed. No one else was truly allowed into my world. People came and went, this is what I saw and taught myself. They never truly lasted. They never stayed. They never understood.
Though I am wont to say, I couldn’t blame them. I never could. But I could never bring myself to hope so much for something that I would never have. Who am I really, to ask for that? The world would just laugh it off like some joke. A crude joke coming from someone who was one of a bunch of eccentrics they couldn't understand.
And so this world I created was for me and only me.
A thousand and one drawings scattered all around me. On the floor, on the desk, on the walls and even scattered about on the lone bed that I often lay in. These pieces of I, figments of the mind and imagination, would always stay. They would never abandon the one who created them. For how could they ever function on their own without someone dictating what should happen to them?
Cruel as it sounds, it was a fact. A fact that I secretly take great pleasure in. These pieces of I lived in a world fashioned for them and most of all, for the one who created them. The artist. The writer. There would always be different titles, yet Creator would be the best to describe these people in one word.
After countless encounters, I have convinced myself that no real person cared. Therefore, no one else would ever matter. The world hurt others, and the world hurt itself. It was a never ending cycle of good struggling against bad. But there was nothing I could do but face it. Endure it. Paint a smile and let out a laugh. And yet behind that facade, I was breaking under the pressure.
I wanted to hope. I wanted to delude myself that somewhere within this maddening world I lived, there was someone who cared. That I was special. That I was needed. That I could find some place to be comfortable, to call my perfect sanctuary. It was all I’s and I’s.
Selfish. And yet I could do nothing but be selfish. And be angry when most of the time, it is unfounded.
To feel deeply would only hurt. I hurt myself on so many occasions not known to the world. Because, what would they care to give? A fake smile? An absent minded pat on the back? Empty words of reassurance that everything would be alright?
... It was a spiral of emotions. Inner turmoil gnawing at my insides that I forced myself to stop thinking. Rubbing my head with a sigh, I sought to look for a distraction. Rummaging around my desk, I found a single piece of blank paper.
Shoving the emotions down, I took up my pencil once more and began to draw.
I did not plan who it was. I did not care that my work was getting messier and messier with each stroke. All that I knew was that if I stopped now, the feelings would return with a vengeance.
As quickly as I had started, the sketch before me was done.
The man sitting by the window sill looked so gentle, so harmless. By nature, he was. I knew him better than any of the others sans a few. I brushed a thumb against the drawing, not caring how it had smudged a part of it. I closed my eyes, imagining that the window was the one behind me. The colors of sunset played on his features. The blinds cast long horizontal shadows over his form. His dark, soulful eyes blinking slowly at the back of the girl who sat hunched over in her chair
“You aren’t real.” Were the choked words that came out.
A hundred times I’ve spoken this to him. A hundred times too did he return that phrase with a look that pierced my heart because I knew it that expression to be very sincere. It was the only expression I knew to paint him with, because if my heart were to have a face, this would always be the emotion it portrayed.
I wanted to cry. But I’ve forgotten how to cry without being selfish.
I fought for deluded reasons. And even if some were the truth, it didn't matter anymore. Everything was deluded. Everything was starting to be painted in black and white. What was fidelity? What was hope? What causes anger? What causes sorrow? Who should I listen to? Who should I place my trust in?
Everything is painted in black and white.
And so I smile. A pained smile that spoke of a girl falling ever so slowly into the abyss, and who denied that the world ever cared an ounce for such a broken existence. There was nothing I could do but endure it, and prevent others from following that path I have taken as much as I was able.
The room had fallen into silence once again.
... There was something missing...
Though whatever it may be...
... It couldn’t matter so much anymore.
END ENTRY.
