The Scribble that sent an Echo from the Past

The young artist had learned of the importance of inspiration - it was as meaningful to him as a dream is to those who sleep.  And for him, who had learned to walk alone, she became the freedom of expression; much like the nature of spontaneous creativity is to an artist's imagination.

But like every light that cannot exist without its shadow - and like every summer that grows to be dependent on its winter solstice – it so happened that there was an immediate change surrounding this new breath of fresh air.

"I still want you in my life,” she wrote “… in one form or another." 

He had only begun to read the surface of the lines when he felt a dagger poke his insides.  Like the heavy weight of wet clothes that anchor themselves to the limbs of the desperate who reach for the surface, so was his struggle against the tentacles that protruded from his thoughts, threatening to drown him in a luxury of doubts.

Awakening him from the prolonged daydream that blinded him since the day of their acquaintance, the jolt of reason attempted to soothe his madness:  “Maybe you are over-thinking things again…” it said.

“Yes,” he replied, “I do tend to create my own wars.”

“And you always lose in the end.”

“But what’s it to you if I cannot help it?”

“You are no more an echo of that which she just mentioned.”

“And you truly favour peaceful efforts in a heart’s race against time?”

“There is truly no rush if it is meant to happen.”

“I guess you’re right…”

The young man had reclaimed his senses for the moment.  And now, staggering in between the cobblestones of public paths, he echoed the sounds of the past and wondered if this time he would be able to abide by her rule.

“…in one form or another.”