I do not own Drake and Josh
Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness
He's scared.
It's a heavy, suffocating kind of fear, like a concrete slab pressing down on his chest, creating an agonizing ache as his body threatens to cave under the crushing stress.
He's trembling uncontrollably at the pressure. He wants to run, but his feet refuse to obey.
There's something mesmerizing about the fear. It draws him as much as it repulses. He wants to flee, and he wants to stay forever.
There are a thousand questions spinning frantically in his mind, and if he stopped to consider them all he'd be driven to an insane frenzy in a second. But somehow he knows that the questions really don't matter right now. They will take care of themselves when the time is right. He can only hold tightly onto that truth, his only shield against the fear.
Drake gazes dazedly down at the baby boy he holds securely in shaking, unfamiliar arms.
Mathias Jackson Parker has his father's eyes, and his soft, downy hair promises to deepen into reddish brown with time.
At twenty-one, Drake sees reality and dependency wrapped in a white cotton blanket. He's looking at the unknown, the daunting, the uncertainties, and a million other things. Adulthood found and trapped him with wide infant eyes and chubby fingers that grasped his own with surprising strength.
He's terrified. Petrified.
But it's a thrilling kind of fear, made a hundred times stronger by instinctive love.
As he stands there, thousands of doors are opening and closing. There's a new path in front of him, only dimly lit and leading towards a place unseen, misted over and cloudy, eighteen thousand miles away. There are towers of mountains and countless storms standing between him and his goal. But he suddenly thinks he must have the strength to overcome them all. He held his strength – dressed in a soft, pastel blue outfit with a top that buttoned up at the back – tightly against his chest
There's a part of him that's crying to run, to be free, to seek a freedom this child can never give him.
Then a tiny little hand reaches up towards his face, and soft little lips curve into a smile, and he asks God if he couldn't stay here forever.
A short, contemplative piece. Written during Physics class, of all times. But inspiration listens to no man. It will strike when it wants to.
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