The sky almost seemed to screech as different tones of gray started to move across and rearrange. No shape would stay the same for more than a few minutes, and the color would seem to reflect off another and merge. Z scrunched their face trying to understand the complexity and reasoning behind all the mixing, shaping and forming. They racked their brains to the point they found themselves lost. A blank page was the only thing they saw. But then that intrigued them. If their mind was blank, then they would fill it obviously. So Z continued commuting to work as they had originally planned doing before they saw the sky with all its shades. Z was an editor. Z would work all day correcting and adding word after word. Then after they were satisfied with the way they had arranged their words they would publish them to a local paper for other people to read. These words, people looked after fondly, and relied on the expression of the letters to help them understand the world around them. Whether their backyard, or somewhere all the way across the globe.
X, a close friend of Z, maybe more maybe less, could care less about words, or what is happening in general. It was always X, they didn't care about this world around them, only about themselves. But unfortunately the career X had chosen in a spur had been art. But they found being disconnected the world as a burden. Without knowing what was around them, they had nothing to paint, draw, or create. So X was stuck. They'd heard so much about how beautiful the world is. Its glory and joy, the world was great, it sounded like to X. X wanted to paint the world, paint it all in one big canvas. X wanted to just take the world and put it all on show for others to see its beauty they had heard so much about, embraced and loved, X loved the world, X cared about the world. But, X didn't know the world.
Z had been observing X. But, X had no idea Z was scheming. Although, Z had known through pain and experience the true meaning of art. Z only wrote, but everything was art, as quoted by Z.
One day Z and X decided to take a stroll through town and stop for a relaxing cup of coffee.
"So X, I've heard you've been struggling a bit in your art profession lately," Z started off after they had sat down and gotten their coffee. "Yes," X replied, sounding a little sad, "I've tried and tried to see the world's beauty. I've heard so much about it. How amazing it is and the rewards it gives. But I've searched and the world is just the world to me, no matter how hard I try." Z slowly nodded while listening to X. Then took a moment to think and collect their thoughts.
"X, are you happy?" Z said suddenly. X tilted their head and put on a confused expression.
"I think I am, I do not feel sad. But, why do you ask?" X said after finding words to the sudden question.
"Oh, it's just I've been finding myself sometimes feeling down." Z said. "When I'm not happy, I seem to lose myself; or who I am in general. People often forget themselves. They forget they matter, and that they have feelings. Even when the feeling overwhelms me, and it's all I can see, I start to lose myself." X just shallowly stared, and then said, "That's not very good." Z just chuckled.
"X, when I start to do that, I do what I love. I love to write, so I write." Z started, "Not everybody likes to write, some hate it, but with a passion." X started to think. "I do love art actually, Z." Z nodded. "But I guess I've been focusing too much on trying to make it beautiful and actually mean something." Z nodded more, starting to grin. "I see the world. People tell me it's beautiful. The world is beautiful, I can see the things they tell me, and I understand. But sometimes I can't feel it." Z, now grinning, said, "Did you know you're a world in yourself, X?" Z contently sipped the coffee, only ignored 'till now. X chuckled. "I'm a world? I'm not beautiful, I'm flawed and there's honestly not much to me."
"Not quite. Inside you, X, is a world, it might be blank and empty now, but it's yours, so you can fill it." X started to see somewhat. Z continued, "I had seen myself as a blank page, waiting to be filled. Blank things are always so beautiful and exciting; they're waiting to be filled with something. But sometimes we fill them with useless or wrong things." X smiled finally. "I can fill it, but how can that help me with my passion, the thing I love?"
"You might think that your art is useless, X." Z said seriously.
"Of course it is." X said just as sternly back.
"But it's worth something, even a word." Z said. "I'm not sure it even deserves a word, Z, I'm sorry." X sadly said. "I'm sure I could write a thousand words on a simple circle." Z said. X laughed. "I know you're an amazing writer, but I doubt." "The more there is left blank, the more there is to fill." X pulled out a pen and scribbled a circle on the napkin, stained slightly by a small drip of coffee. X said nothing, then stood and picked up their thing. X looked Z straight in the eyes and handed them the napkin. "I will be waiting then." X left the café went home. Z also did.
Z sat with a pencil and the paper in front, and started to write;
"The sky almost seemed to screech as the different tones of gray started to move across and rearrange…"