To Bring Dreams to Life
When I was a small child, I was given one single wish. I can't remember who gave it to me, or why they did so, but I just remember this special time while I was staring out to the midnight starry sky and wondering how many stars there really were. You see, for this single wish, I had to promise to do good with it. Not to be greedy. Not to be rude. But, I was a child. We didn't think of those things. We just dreamed of having. . . well. . . dreams. Just that. And, my dream was really simple, but strange. I wanted, if only one thing, to bring my imagination to life. Not through my mind, but through my pencil. And you know what? My very first and last wish was granted.
From that day on, I waited and waited before deciding on what I wanted to bring alive because the wish was limited to one thing. Being so young, I just wanted a friend. Someone to play with. So, I drew him. A new person to play with and have fun times with. With a little sketch, I started.
He wasn't the best drawing I'd ever made, no, but he was perfect back then. Back when my drawings didn't matter how good they were or how funny they looked. He was my friend. My newest and most amazing friend, one that wouldn't move away or leave me because he was always there.
We grew up together, always staying with one another. Though, I was saddened. As my drawing skills improved, he seemed more and more depressed about how he was. So, two years after I first drew him, I drew him again. I made him as absolutely perfect as I possibly could, though, now it seemed like everyone was looking at my drawings. Saying things about them. Pointing out any flaw in it they could find. I was scared I'd mess up, and that people wouldn't like him as much as I did, though, I pushed past it, bringing him to life once more.
By then though, I realized, every time I redrew him, he forgot what we'd done. All those times we spent together. All that we did with one another. But, he didn't care. He still knew me, somewhere back in his mind and wanted me to keep going, to improve. So, I did. And, every time I redrew him, I told him everything. Every single moment and thing we had. Not missing one little detail in it. And, he always laughed and smiled as I told the stories. It was so much fun, though; I could never get over my guilt of making him forget over and over and over again.
Four years passed, four years of me getting better and better and better. I was about to graduate high school. It was so exciting. My friend, I'd worked so hard not to have to redraw him anymore. He was so perfect to me. In every single line and way.
But, not to those others that always judged me. Not to those people that pointed out every single flaw and mishap and error. He was just an ugly scribble. My best friend a messed up blob.
Though, I have some advice for those out there. Never fall for your own creation. It only makes fixing these things harder for you. The older I got, I started crying as I told him our story after redrawing him again. He was never exactly the same either. He always had the same personality, but . . . he just. . . There was always just something different.
I was so proud of myself for getting into the art school I wanted to get into. It was the best in the country. All the most skilled artists came from there. I could finally reach where I wanted to be. Reach the point of where I couldn't draw him any better. Finally find the very tip of my talent and express it fully into the boy I loved.
The training was hard. So hard that sometimes when I went home, I cried because I still wasn't near good enough. I refused to draw him again until I knew that I wouldn't have to take away his mind apart another time. Although he was saddened by that, he still smiled and held me close through my hardest times, never looking to the people that criticized him for who he was or how he was made. He did it for me, just because I was doing it all for him.
And you know? I made it. I actually graduated one of the hardest and most challenging art schools in the country. I'd done it. I had gotten to the point that no one could tell me he wasn't perfect. I'd earned my piece of mind from that place and a few very dear teachers. He was mine. All other artists could say he didn't look right, but to me, he was and always would be perfect.
He knew everything the moment I got home and we danced around the living room in pure joy. Nothing could ever tear us apart, ever. The moment seemed to flow in slow motion, both of us happier than we had been since he opened his eyes for the first time.
But, even with all my skills I'd earned, I couldn't bring myself to draw him again. My mind was scared. What if he didn't love me like before? What if that was the difference this time. What if, what if, what if. . . ?
Though, he understood and smiled to me, still drawn in the style of a senior in high school, "If you say that I'm perfect, then I am." And that was a statement that had me in tears, not of sadness like all those times before, but in joy of not fearing to lose him. He put his hands by my cheeks and kissed my forehead.
With that, we grew old together. Ten years passed. Then twenty, then even more, and before I knew it, I was old, in my own death bed, smiling up at my dearest friend and lover, with his tear streaked smile staring back down at me.
And, at that point, I decided I didn't have that much time left, and that, one last time, I wanted to redraw him.
And so I did. My old hands shook, but the lines still flowed from me like they had those years when I'd first gotten out of art school and taught as an elementary school art teacher. The entire drawing of him too more than a day of straight work, but it was worth it. When I finished, he was everything he'd ever wanted to be, and that I'd worked for all of those years so long ago.
And then, I told him everything. Every little detail. Not missing one tiny fact. Not missing one time we'd smiled or cried together, or how we'd played and talked that very first day. Or even how sad he'd been those high school years that he was criticized the most. I didn't want to miss anything, because I didn't know if I'd ever have the chance to remember to tell him again.
Though, by the time I finished, my voice was almost gone, and he was crying, holding my ancient artistic hands in his drawn from my imagination.
And our last few words exchanged were simple. "I loved you, through all of time, and all of memory."
And about at that time, my single wish ended, and it was passed to someone else. A story of a girl whom fell in love with her own imagination, and no matter what, still believed in what she did, ended right then and there. I guess you could say, never listen to others ideas on what you make, because, as long as you see it in your eyes, it will always be perfect.