MATTER
Music was the only consolation in the squid's monotonous life. He spent countless hours studying counterpoint and composing etudes for the future generation of clarinet players. He fawned over his multiple idols whenever he heard them on his favorite radio station as he was bathing in the glory of the sun, trying to find inspiration in the dreariest of places.
But not even music could console him now.
His neighbor, the sponge whose carefree take on life baffled him more and more every day, had begun to infiltrate even his thoughts of music. No more could he compose tortured solos, for the infectious laughter of his enemy had begun to invade his deepest writings. His clarinet would cry out one moment, and then seem to giggle as though lost in a flight of eternal fancy, forever trapped in a world of fantasy and frolicking. Now, the thought of music made him cringe.
So he turned to his art. Ah, yes, his plethora of masterpieces hanging from every hallowed hall—of his house, of course. He would let his tentacles do the talking—his brush sweeping across canvas, scaling mountains in a single stroke, and capturing the essence of the most beautiful things that the squid could see in his own reflection.
But not even his art could console him now.
It had also taken a toll for the worse due to his neighbor's existence. His piercing, haunting gaze was engraved in the squid's mind. Eyes bluer than the depths of the ocean itself brought joy to the cantankerous cephalopod's heart, and it hurt him to bear this burden. He would always find his tentacle yearning to reach for the yellow paint.
He had tried everything; sculpting proved to be a failure, as every attempt would reflect the perfection of the one he so long considered to be the bane of his existence. He tried jazzercise, but his moves were starting to falter and resemble those of his former student, who for so long he had been secretly jealous of. He even tried to do practical things—and even the simplest task, even filing papers, reminded him of the meticulous method of his neighbor as he created his beloved Krabby Patties. In his careful hands, the meat was blessed. In his creation, he was as a mother to her child. Each individual patty was given no less attention than the next.
Oh, how Squidward had often longed to be the meat in Spongebob's hands. He had often dreamed of being reformed, of being able to smile and laugh as freely as he once had, long ago, before all of his dreams had been shattered.
And yet, his dreams had all come true. He stood there, suddenly brought back to the world of the present by his manager. He was standing in a gallery of his very own artwork. And he was in shock as he gazed upon the star piece of the show.
It was as though it had been painted by angels—small clams were soaring at the heights of the big, blue sea, surrounded coral structures that looked as though they were sculpted by Neptune himself! But even the mighty visage of the sun streaming through the clear waters was not what made this piece so special-in the very center of the painting was a familiar, boxy creature in repose. His body was wrapped in the finest silk, and it almost sounded as if the quirky personage were singing a joyful, yet strangely sad little tune to everyone who gazed at the Squid's masterpiece. His blue eyes never left their hearts.
Squidward could not believe his eyes. Knowing that he had created something so beautiful overwhelmed him. He charged out of the gallery, sobbing uncontrollably—to where he went, nobody knew, and his manager could only sigh sadly and look down at all the money in his claws, knowing that it really didn't mean anything now.
Squidward stood by the grave of his neighbor and wept bitterly.
For not even the most beautiful of his dreams or the most magnificent of his paintings could ever bring back what really mattered.