I was bewildered and crying
When I realized at the corner of a toy store
My mom had disappeared
Although a stranger was kindly trying to talk to me
I didn’t listen to anything that was said to me.

Whenever I'm around my canvas I get a sickening feeling, a sharp, painful ache that spirals through my body before residing inside of my heart. Think about that for a second, all these motions that this pain takes and it decides to strike me in the heart? Out of all the lovely places, it chose my heart. Not my forehead where I could suffer from severe headaches for the rest of my life, nor my eyes, where I could handle my vision slipping in and out of focus, to be filled with fuzzy multicolored dots and hazy. No, it strikes my heart. Makes me clutch my chest and wheeze, making me think of all the things I've done, and will do, and have not yet done. So I avoid my canvas as much as possible, but at night that calling comes back to me and in my half drunken, half lethargic stupor, I'll slip out of the bed and draw once again. It may kill me, drawing that is, but it is my passion.

We all have passion, to certain degrees and levels. Be it romance or just the will to accomplish, we all have that burning drive for something. Sometimes passion is dangerous, it spirals out of control like a violent fire, engulfing you and swallowing your pride, your inhibitions and common sense, leaving you blind and naked on display. Sometimes it burns...you pine for it, whatever it may be, so bad that you fall limp, weak and tired, listless and feckless. Sometimes passion is good, you pursue it in an ardent way, innocent and pure, and you strive to get what you want done. And you succeed- or so I've read, I never have accomplished achieving my control over passion, nor have I seen any of my other peers do so.

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The skies are gray as he looks at me with those sweet, innocent soft blue eyes, flecked with gold around the out lines of it. I’d draw him staring off some place deep, maybe over a cliff, watching the waves crash violently against the rocks while the sun rises, a bright fiery gold with spots of yellow and orange. He’d hold a telescope in his right hand and a book, a journal maybe, in the other, pen tucked behind his ears. He could be my hero, I know it, but he is no Alexander Huntley. So I will not draw him so ardently. I will not make my way through the crowd and talk to him, no matter how much he may catch my eye and above all things, I will not let him into my life.

But he turns, and he sees me looking at him, and I felt my heart stop right then and there. Fear. Pain. Flutter. Flash. Gone. Shite, bat shite emotions will be the last of me, I swear it. I jerk my head away, as if he slapped me, and make my way down to a table, any table, and sit down, breathing harshly. How dare this boy look at me like that, sinful little creature, that boy. I know he is. I can feel it. So I must distance myself from him. Forever. Now.

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A thousand little glass shards, I’d draw those shards dripping with poison and laced with blood, scarlet tips and dried crusted ends as they rained upon the ground, shattering and splintering among impact. And through all the chaos Alexander would stand there, staring up into the sky, arms sprawled out on each side like a modern day Christ, un touched, flawless. I dream of capturing him like that, and this is the portrait I have in mind as I stare at him in awe as he talks to Paul casually, the blonde- whose name is Robert I have come to find out, his best friend-, staying closely by his side, laughing and smiling and nodding at his every word. Jacqui was very quiet, nodding every now and then and smiling when he turned to look at her, but mainly her eyes were placed on me. I could feel that accusing glare in my back from a million miles away.

"I see you have a new room mate." Alexander’s voice is surprisingly deep, not really deep where the tones are clashing together, but deep where his words have meaning as well as simple phrasing. To explain him would take a life time, but he seems like the person who could write a book from speech, remember it, and write it down later on. He looks at me, that smile playing on his lips and I suddenly realize that I have to actually reply. But when I open my mouth my words falter and Paul has to step in for me.

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Oct. 1
I love the rain. I like how each drop makes a different sound against my body as I move quietly through it, books clutched close under my jacket. I can’t be bothered to carry an umbrella, although Robert did warn me about catching cold. However, I don’t mind. It’d be nothing more than a tea and book day for me, reclined inside my chair in the corner, watching the droplets race down the window. What are they racing to? Their inevitable death once they reach the window seal? It’s amusing how those raindrops are just like people; desperate to show off what they have until it doesn’t matter anymore, because, in the long stretch, does anything matter?

I’m not cynical, despite what people say.

And I’m not brilliant, just because a few people like what you write does not mean that you are smart. That you are brilliant. That you are worthy of praise. Look, when I first wrote the book and published it I expected massive backlash and threats to never write again. I didn’t expect letters from people saying that I saved their life, or that I’m above average, or that they love me, want to be like me, want to write like me. Don’t do that. I hate that.

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"You’re coming with me to the gallery, get dressed." Paul’s moving around the room, but I can’t see him, only a blurry figure. Those pink and blue spots are in my eyes again and I have to rub them twice before they begin to filter away again. I haven’t been feeling well, ever since I got my program I’ve been going to my classes and spending most of my spare time inside the studio. I haven’t seen much of Alexander, but that’s okay, I haven’t been looking for him.

Hasn’t he proven that he doesn’t care for his readers?

And what the fuck does teal have to do with anything?

"Love the mural." He slings his camera bag over his shoulder while still looking for different lens sizes. "Shit, where’s my black and white film…I don’t have a bloody filter this time…" He trails off and I look the wall. I sigh, teal has everything to everything. On the wall there’s a Monet like piece, swirling teal and yellow colored chalk mixed together and running down the walls isolated corners. A large double Decker is parked above the sky with my insignia written inside the corner.

"Tie me down…" I whisper, and Paul looks up with a smug look on his face. "Eh?" He damn well heard me, but I repeat it once more for my own sake. "I said, tie me down to the bed at night…"

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"Es hat geregnet, während wir gelitten haben" That was the opening line of the movie. It rained while we suffered.

It always amused me how people become so enraptured with details. All this commotion over a simple phrase of words. I wish I could word things beautifully, but then again, I’m not Alexander. I can’t grasp words by their neck and stick a knife to their throat, commanding them to do everything that I tell them to do and no one will get hurt. I can’t find beauty in an empty room. I think I lost my muse. Did I ever have a muse? It’s hard to say, but then again everything is hard to say lately. It’s hard to think too, all these colors and hues within me don’t seem to have time to calculate in maths problems or scribble answers to who killed who and who fell in love with who on boring English tests anymore.

I started reading the book that Mr. Wells-- eh, I mean ‘Jeremy’ assigned for me.

He wants me to start calling him on a first name basis to ‘cement’ our friendship and to be able to ‘communicate better ‘ without the ‘odd barrier of childhood angst’ and ‘parental issues’ getting in the way. I still call him Mr. Wells. He still fumbles. So there’s not much of a change within our ‘budding friendship.’

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"Well, what exactly made McPhee so brilliant?" Mr. Wells drawls out, leafing through his book leisurely. The class looked up at him with blank eyes, struggling to even remember something from the last passage at all. Once again, although I am not surprised, Mr. Wells was found a way to kill the life out of literature. It’s rather sad, to be honest; he has the correct intentions, just not the will power to carry it out. Maybe he had low self-esteem, or maybe he was just naturally despondent around a group of children. Whatever the reason may be, I decided to cut him a break today and raised my hand.
"Nicholas?" He called, arching his eyebrows. Yes, I could speak without being spoken to, it was simply just a rare event. Why waste my voice on deaf ears? People were too ignorant these days to appreciate the true meaning of having a voice, I suppose if they were to loose theirs only then would they understand.

I flip a page open in my book, looking down at sloppy notes that filled half the page, and little doodles that were stuck in between the margins. "Because he gave his character a new perspective on life, but he didn’t do it though long drawn out sentences and overly clichéd words…he just…well, he just put his emotion in there. And, whether it was due to lack of description, or due to the amount of raw, pure emotion, that was enough to off set an all new sort of literary renaissance…an emotional character upheaval, if you will."

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In the end - it was never finished...