A small black, leather bound journal. Soft, fine grain, silver embossed page edges. Crisp clean white paper with barely visible red lines. To mark the beat, the time, the flow, to make the words even.
He could hear them arguing again. It was hard to miss. A faint yelling from down the hall, punctuated with a minor explosion. He never got involved in these, even when they looked at him with pleading eyes, asking him to join a side, show support, to show anything. He refused, always, watching from the sidelines and critiquing their art.
But he had his own art. The almost black, maroon ink was his tool. The paper his canvas. His mind his medium. They didn't know, didn't care, couldn't understand that there might be more to art than eternity, or fleeting beauty.
His art was thought. The gift to capture any image, emotion, or location within the pages of the leather bound journal. He could capture the mind with his art as well as his eyes.
He wrote to remember and to forget. So he could forever be able to see the dancing smoke on the breeze, and the feathery and fragrant sakura in the spring. The muted and glittering beauty of a snow covered world. He wrote so he did not have to see the pooling blood, feel the cold steel of a katana in his hands, so he did not have to remember again. Solace. To never be hurt again.
He wrote about other things as well, his arguing fellow artists. Long golden hair and sharp ice blue eyes. Perfection marred by the metal eye, but it somehow seemed to enhance his beauty instead of destroying it. White clay, the freedom of flight, art that was seen in the brief flash of fire and noise of an explosion. As fleeting as life itself.
Deep chocolate eyes that draw you in, the subtle aura of inhuman perfection that surrounded him. He was perfect, and yet not complete. Red hair fluttered like a curtain of fire before those soulful eyes, why must he hide himself from the world? Wood and metal, surreal perfection. Silver strings that give them life. Yet his art is the paradox of death. The fools, both losing their lives and humanity to become part of their beloved art.
He wrote of his blessing, his curse. The memories, the anguish, the anger. Nobody had ever understood. He wrote of nightmares, for they were the only dreams he had. He saw himself, he felt the cold blade of the katana, and he could almost taste the blood in the air. Nobody would understand, he gained nothing, no satisfaction from killing them. Gained nothing but the curse of watching the massacre endlessly in his own mind.
He wrote to create a box, and within it he sealed all of his emotions, memories, and humanity. He wrote in hopes that someday, someone would find his art, read it, and understand. He wrote so he would be able to see, as his curse took his sight day by day.
With each curse comes a blessing, his curse was powers, his blessing was art. So when the curse took over, his blessing would be his eyes, his emotions, and his memories. There is more to art than the eternity of death and the fleeting beauty of life. There was the art of the soul that would last for all time, beauty never waning.
And it was all locked away in a small, black leather-bound journal. Soft, fine grain, silver embossed page edges. Crisp clean paper with faint red lines to mark the tempo. Slanting handwriting, maroon ink chronicling his pain, his memory, and his world.
Maybe, one day, someone would read it and understand…