Welcome to Gaia! ::

I got some new pencils the other day. It was just a simple pencil set; all the usual pieces, but it would serve the purpose I had intended for them. The purchase was fast and simple. And still, I couldn’t get you out of my mind. I remember the car ride home. The pencils sat in the passenger seat in their neat little plastic bag while the same song played over and over in the CD player. I sang along to that song the whole car ride home. The same song played then while I sat and drew with my new pencils.

“Up ahead in the distance, I saw a shimmering light…”

My house was dark when I walked in. It stayed dark as I made my way to my living room, where my desk sat. I never turned on a light save for the small lamp on my desk. Having taken the CD into the house with me, I put it into my stereo, setting it to the same song and to repeat. I sat down with my new pencils, my sketchpad still there from the last time I had the urge to draw. I didn’t need anything else and I didn’t plan on getting up anytime soon.

“There she stood in the doorway…”

From the start, I knew this was going to be my finest work. I sat there, with my big sketchpad, illuminated only by my one desk lamp. I sat there in my little pool of light, scratching away at the paper. Paper seemed to be the only release I ever had. I could draw anything I wanted and no one had to know. I could write anything I wanted and no one ever had to see it. Pencils and paper were my only friends most of the time. They were always there, and they would listen to me cry, or curse, or sing while I scratched my soul out onto the paper.

“This could be Heaven or this could be Hell…”

I was singing then, even as I put the first line on the paper. The words crept from my lips and I sat hunched over my desk, oblivious to the world outside of the light. I knew exactly what I was drawing. I’d been thinking about this one picture for weeks now. I had obsessed over it. The lines formed themselves from my hands, like a painter’s strokes, or the winning pass on Super Bowl Sunday. I was in my element and nothing was going to interfere with my task. Was this what God had felt like when he made Adam?

“Such a lovely place, such a lovely face…”

Slowly my work took shape on the page. The shoulders became defined first, then the hair. I left out no details at all. There were times when I was forced to remove my pencil from the paper. The lips alone took me nearly an hour. Then, finally, I sat back in my chair and looked over what I had done. I saw you. I saw you looking back at me from the table. Indeed, this had been my finest work. Had I not known better, I would have begged the picture to whisper my name.

“She got lots of pretty, pretty boys, that she calls friends…”

All I could do was stare at you, laying there on my desk. There were so many things I wanted to say to you; wanted to scream at you. I wanted to ask you if you were happy now. I wanted to know if you even remembered me at all, because I sure as hell remembered you. I grabbed the stereo remote and pocketed it, and then I picked up the picture. I took it over and set it in my chair before kneeling before the hearth to start a fire. When a hearty glow came from my fireplace, I returned to my chair. Picking up the picture, I let myself fall into my chair. It was large and comfortable, black leather, and I’d had it for years. I fumbled around in my jacket pockets with one hand, staring at the picture in the other until I found my cigarettes and lighter. On long nights like that one, brandy and smokes were my world. In fact, there was a half-empty bottle sitting on the table next to my chair from the previous night.

“We haven’t seen that spirit here since 1969…”

The whole room was silent, save the crackling fire and the occasional sputter of my cigarettes. When the pack was finally gone and only a quarter bottle of brandy remained, I rose from my seat, the picture still in my hand. I carefully tore the page out of my sketch pad. I tossed the pad onto the floor next to my chair and stood there, still staring at the picture. My eyes hadn’t left yours since I left my desk and its glow. Were you happy?

“We are all just prisoners here, of our own device…”

I remember how I had taken you to the school dance. I was never much of a dancer. But you had asked me to dance with you. Your eyes had shimmered at me in the dimly lit gymnasium. I remember, how, for once, I knew I could dance. I danced with you that night and it was flawless. I hadn’t danced since; I knew it would never be as perfect as then. I knew I was no dancer, but I could draw. My dances were had out on paper.

“But they just can’t kill the beast…”

I had crumpled the picture and thrown it into the fire. There was no anger there. There were no hateful words said. I knew my questions would go unanswered, and I accepted it. I wouldn’t be seeing you again. It was cold out, but I decided to have a cigarette outside. I grabbed the fresh pack I had brought home earlier off of the table and headed for the door. As I passed, I turned off my stereo, but I kept singing. I watched as the cigarette had bobbed in and out of the flame as I sang while I lit it.

“But you can never leave…”

I was still singing that one song as I stepped outside. It was one of my favorites; “Hotel California,” by The Eagles. And as I sat on my porch, staring into the night, watching the snow fall, I sang the one line that meant so much. In those few words, I had felt so much lifted from my chest; the pain, the regret, all gone now. That night had seen my last dance with you, etched out on paper. And as the fire had erased my drawing from this world, the flames of time slowly burnt you out of my memory and allowed me to live again.

“Some dance to remember. Some dance to forget…”

surprised Incredible, I might try this sometime.