Hikaru: GAH! I own nothing. That is all.
It was a new frontier, it was a fallowed field, it was freshly fallen powder snow, it was a great clear sky.
Ultimately, it was white, pure, and most of all . . . blank.
Luke fingered the pencil in his hand, pricked his fingertips with the razor sharp point of the graphite. A leather-bound hardcover sketchbook lay open in his lap. Eraser marks and bits of his "magic" eraser littered the pages and the floor.
He had the pencil in his hand.
He had the million or so ideas racing through his mind.
If only he could put it down on paper.
As Luke tried vainly to draw whatever came to mind, growled at himself before erasing the hideous doodle viciously, he had to resign himself to the apparent—
That his creativity seemed to have left him, and that it had no intention whatsoever to come back.
Angry with himself, Luke threw down pencil, eraser, and sketchbook, pressing his hands to his temples.
"I'm sorry," he mumbled, to no one in particular.
"Come back to me . . . I'm sorry, I dunno what made you angry, but I'll be good . . . come back . . ."
So on he went, mumbling to himself like a madman, bemoaning his woe as if his very fickle significant other left him for someone else.
A little ways away, at the dining table, sharing freshly baked cookies and coffee, Jade and Guy stared at the youth pounding his forehead repeatedly and rambling on about how it was his fault, his alone, that he should figure out a way to earn his vague "something" back, and frankly Guy was quite unnerved by it.
"Jade . . . what's he doing?"
Jade sipped his coffee, nibbled at a peanut butter cookie.
"One would assume he's been trying to draw, and—" those crimson eyes of his flashed beneath his glasses, "—'twould seem his mistress has left him."
Guy spewed coffee. The white silk tablecloth embroidered with red roses was ruined, scarred with the brown spots that were the coffee.
"His what?"
Jade laughed.
"His mistress, his muse, his overall creativity, the very thing which allows us contact with our unconscious, our inner child that plays at his will, the logically meaningless marks on paper becoming something of self-expression."
Guy's jaw worked, but nothing of speech came out.
"Luke has—" Jade continued, "—now done something to displease his unconscious, inner 'child' greatly, and now he must figure out what he has done wrong, and how to restore diplomatic relations with his mistress."
Silence pervaded for several minutes.
Guy finished off his cookie, downed the last of his coffee, inhaled deeply, and heaved a sigh.
"I will never understand you two."