-- paint me a picture -- emsrock

The pencil perched in your long delicate fingers, is one that you have used for many years now. You prided yourself in the way it felt against your skin, the way that you controlled it, and you controlled the image, the story which would be created before your eyes. Smiling you look down at the blank piece of paper on your table. There was not a mark on the sheet, and yet for hours now you have sat in this exact position, your eyes slightly closed as you let your mind wander over your life, as you let your mind wander and grasp at inspiration. You take a deep breath, images of your past, of what you believed to be your future, flashed through your mind. It was amazing, amazing to watch how your mind ticked endlessly, forming ideas, forming master pieces, all just waiting for you to place the tip of that pencil to that paper and let the ideas flow.

The pencil seemed to buzz in your fingers, begging you to let it glide along the paper, pleading with you to let it create something, pleading with you to let it run free. Finally you give in, letting the pencil touch the paper in one fluid movement. You smile as the pencil runs free along the white material, an image forming before your eyes. You watch as what seems to being off to be just a bunch of thin and think lines turn into something that reveals a story, a story about you and the life that you lead. Tilting your head to the side slightly, you bite down on the tip of your tongue, your hand working madly, jerking across the page in odd movements.

Then finally it comes to a stop, the pencil falling from the clasp of your hands, hitting the Oakwood of your desk with a soft thud. You wipe the pencil out of the way, and it slips of the edge of your desk, clattering to the floor- but you didn’t care, you couldn’t care. You were lost, your eyes admiring the image that was sketched before you. Just like any other piece of yours it was perfect. Yes it had flaws- the ones that would deem it imperfect to some- but to you it was flawless, truly a piece of art that came from you. It was raw, it was you on paper. Your smile grows until your checks begun to ache, but you didn’t care, all you could do was smile- smile and stare at the master piece that was clutched delicately in your hands.

Finally you pull your clear gaze away from the picture, your eyes slipping along the wall that constructed your room. It was covered in paint, in pictures, in terpinene in pencil, in texture. It was a collage of almost anything you could think of. You smile at your creation, climbing to your feet in a rush as you move over to the wall closest to you, your fingers eagerly slipping a pin from its grasp in the wall, placing your picture it its place before slipping the pin back into the wall, where it struck home nice and snuggly. Again you take a step back, your proud gaze admiring the piece of art- your world of creativity- that surrounded you. It was beautiful, something that you could only dream of in another world.

You close your eyes for a moment, soaking in the perfection that surrounded you. It was something that filled you with a warm fuzzy feeling, something that made you feel almost as though you were invincible- you felt as though the world was at your feet, you felt as though you were in charge- you created this room, you created these memories.

You only stand for one more moment before slipping out of your room, and into the hallway of your small house- the house which you shared with your brothers and sisters. You loved your family, you loved your siblings. They were your anchor, the reason why you were still approaching life with a smile and a wave. If it weren’t for them… well the life you lead now might not seem as appealing- putting it short. Closing my door behind me I wander into the kitchen, my hands running along the smooth wood of the bench. The house seemed to be empty, and with a sigh I slip into one of the old chairs, the chair groaning with reluctance as my body flopped onto its surface.