Journey To Inspiration
One: Then the magic is lost.
Where is the moment we needed the most
You kick up the leaves and the magic is lost
You tell me your blue skies fade to gray
You tell me your passion's gone away
And I don't need no carryin' on
"Augh..." He groaned as the cultivation of his thoughts came to cease in the sudden midst of the night. UsuAlly, the night was when the cultivation of this creative prowess was most intrigued, but in this evening, he found emploring such was tougher than before.
Gerard Way faced his blank Art canvas, where only ivory rested as the only pigment of color to reflect onto this artless domain.
From this lonely facade of no accountable resume did he often spawn much of his ideals into, but arcanely, this evening, he had no memorobilia of what could imply as inspiration.
He dipped the hairsbreadth of his paintbrush in a sea of rich red paint, and began making small strokes onto the easel. With the paintbrush, he tried to transport his ideas on the canvas, letting the paintbrush guide him...but his supposed output was a disaster.
His painting, which was a supposed figure of a rose, ended up in the malformation of a dragon. Angrily, he obliterated his work, shreds of the ivory canvas clustering in feathers onto the floor.
Also in the mouth of his enraged attentive, he threw buckets of paint onto the floor, a rainbow of colors dividing into a spectrum on the shag carpet.
Staring at the floor, he even summoned the sentenced heath that even the accidental mess he dismayed onto the floor was even more adequate than his own finesse.
In his concussing revelation, he angrily rampaged in the room, knocking off art materials and untamely cultivating wild splashes of unoblated hues and added dust to the mild ruins.
What laid in the debris of the room was glitter, paste, a broad assortment of colored pencils and paintbrushes, paint, crayons, markers, paper, and torn artworks.
Gerard sat in the middle of it all, damning himself of his lack of adequacy and tried to compensate with his emotions.
"Damn you, Gerard..." Gerard reprimanded himself. "You can't ever get anything right anymore...you idiot...you told yourself Art was something you can't grow apart from...look at you now! You think you can say that after all THIS? DAMN YOU!"
He grabbed a prosaic pencil and rammed it into a window, decimating the glass and shattering several glass eyes to melt on the ground.
Sapphire fragments of diamond-clear glass pristinely glistened onto the floor, blending with the warrens of glitter and wild debris.
Ruins of some possessed séance manifestated by the reflection of an artist in a spell of contrition lay above his eyes. Its facade of fleshy ornaments and elements to render a perception such as this was too horrifying to abnegate as a melancholic piece of Art.
It was too arbitrarily attentive to decimation than it was to passion.
“Gerard! What’s all the noise up there?” Gerard’s mother yelled from the descent of downstairs, concerned vocals measured from the dynamics of her voice.
He tried to remain mild and calm. “Nothing to worry about mom…”
“Well, if you’re going to stay up all night painting, I left some coffee for you downstairs,” Mrs. Way’s shrill voice broadened to a tamer tone.
Gerard was tied onto a façade of desperado. In this scenario of which his life never dreamed of encountering, was a reflection of all his hard work and passion delved into his Art, but it’s pristine pride gnashing against no9thing to the attentive.
"I'll get coffee," he said as he stomped out of the room, still cluttered from the explosion of sherbet bombs of wild color and hues and gradientials of all breeds.
Downstairs, a fragile table was set open in the wink of sanded light as a mug of coffee was let out to shine as if it were presenting itself to Gerard.
How harmless that little mug of heaven looked, unmarred and untouched by anyone and inviting Gerard's senses to indulge and drink.
“How cute. A small mug of coffee. At least mom and dad never chose to option anything else—and they had to choose Starbucks. Joy.” Gerard said in a tone inevitably sardonic, yet in a drowsy, almost drunk persona.
He randomly strewed his coffee stirrer into the colloided liquid. Thinking the steam would replenish his thoughts and make him forget of his haughty put-down, he concentrated on the waves intrigued by the cascading coffee.
Although, it did more than just make him relax...
He also fell to a very heavy sleep...
Next evening...
Solemnly tired did he lay on the bed, the ceiling suspended above him, casting the illusion of the sky to drift in his mind. The peaceful, ebonic oblivion of sleep should have flattered the lashes on Gerard's eyes, but unfortunately fell to failure.
The expanding moonbeam sliced silver and cut like the hairsbreadth of glass against a worn leather scabbard. Perfection was distilled by the clouds that hovered over the moon. Ivory highlighted by silver flowed tranquil divinity over the undone floor.
He longed for a dream to drift him upon the words of sleep. But so many thoughts occupied his mind and obliterated the faint drowsy stimulation intrigued by slumber.
Above all the contrasted figures that defined an impression over the black oblivion of the night, the corona that would introduce the liberation of sunrise reigned over his emotions.
The caterwauling sound of the clock artlessly seconded the linear ideals that endlessly flowed within the boundaries surrounding his mind. A period sauntering drowsily within the dark hours awakes no meaning of being awake at all.
How ironic it was for him to liberate thoughts in his mind, yet simultaneously he felt so exhausted with them being the only ideas that stood to glide free within his mind.
To calisthenisize the mood to sleep was an obstacle the night had to warm a threshold on him. Could he concentrate in doing so? He was much too disablorn by lethargy to sharpen his thoughts onto one particular panorama in mind.
Since the matter of his disdain occurred, he could not conjure focus to his head. In his desire to bask the ideas from his mind, he quixoticAlly sought help from his other artistic friend, Allison, whose house he sleptover in that night.
Probably it was the heavy curtains that bothered him. Or the emblazing effect subdued by the coffee he drank last night. Or maybe it was his self-proclaimed lack of imagination?
"Ali?" He enquired, delving for Allison's face in the darkness.
He perceived her sketching at the foot of her bed, her lampshade directly overhead from the spot she was drawing on.
"Gee? You can't sleep either?" Allison looked up from her sketchpad.
Gerard nodded drowsily. "Yeah...my mind's on something I can't wrap my finger on..."
He groaned, as Allison was still in the midst of her sketching. She did not seem to take much novice--she seemed well focused on her drawing to answer.
She was sketching a scene of the Ravens and Falcons searing the flesh of the skies at a midnight of a golden crystalline soul's dream.
Allison stroked soft yet evident strokes on the paper, molding it into the shape of a Raven as she curved its wings and revealed its evident feathers of ebonic silver and highlighted them in ivory white, perfectly established in well-orchestrated detail.
The Falcon she sketched was of the gray scaled hue with golden yellow eyes and black brows. Jessica sharpened the texture of the rusted beak, adding yellow streaks to give it evident beams of light flowing on it.
"Mmm...good for you...you are still able to draw birds well..." Gerard said, noticing much of the light, mild drawing as its beauty began to unfold.
"Good only for me?" Allison scoffed. "Since when did you have Artist's block?"
"So that’s what they call it when Artists develop lack of imagination for a small time…”Gerard replied.
Allison reluctantly riveted the direction of her friend’s sentence. “Who said you have a lack of imagination? Everyone, even the best Artists in the world have Artist’s block! I mean, look at Van Gogh!”
Gerard treasoned, “He got over his contusion by cutting his own ear off!”
Allison fumbled over her words, “W-what I mean is…he got off his contusion SOMEHOW…but not in a good Way either…but at least he got over it. If he could, why can’t you?”
Then suddenly, in memorobilia of one certain oblation, Gerard got a sudden vision of an untimely experience of his last night. "Also I remember having this...dream..."
You kick up the leaves and the magic is lost
You tell me your blue skies fade to gray
You tell me your passion's gone away
And I don't need no carryin' on
"Augh..." He groaned as the cultivation of his thoughts came to cease in the sudden midst of the night. UsuAlly, the night was when the cultivation of this creative prowess was most intrigued, but in this evening, he found emploring such was tougher than before.
Gerard Way faced his blank Art canvas, where only ivory rested as the only pigment of color to reflect onto this artless domain.
From this lonely facade of no accountable resume did he often spawn much of his ideals into, but arcanely, this evening, he had no memorobilia of what could imply as inspiration.
He dipped the hairsbreadth of his paintbrush in a sea of rich red paint, and began making small strokes onto the easel. With the paintbrush, he tried to transport his ideas on the canvas, letting the paintbrush guide him...but his supposed output was a disaster.
His painting, which was a supposed figure of a rose, ended up in the malformation of a dragon. Angrily, he obliterated his work, shreds of the ivory canvas clustering in feathers onto the floor.
Also in the mouth of his enraged attentive, he threw buckets of paint onto the floor, a rainbow of colors dividing into a spectrum on the shag carpet.
Staring at the floor, he even summoned the sentenced heath that even the accidental mess he dismayed onto the floor was even more adequate than his own finesse.
In his concussing revelation, he angrily rampaged in the room, knocking off art materials and untamely cultivating wild splashes of unoblated hues and added dust to the mild ruins.
What laid in the debris of the room was glitter, paste, a broad assortment of colored pencils and paintbrushes, paint, crayons, markers, paper, and torn artworks.
Gerard sat in the middle of it all, damning himself of his lack of adequacy and tried to compensate with his emotions.
"Damn you, Gerard..." Gerard reprimanded himself. "You can't ever get anything right anymore...you idiot...you told yourself Art was something you can't grow apart from...look at you now! You think you can say that after all THIS? DAMN YOU!"
He grabbed a prosaic pencil and rammed it into a window, decimating the glass and shattering several glass eyes to melt on the ground.
Sapphire fragments of diamond-clear glass pristinely glistened onto the floor, blending with the warrens of glitter and wild debris.
Ruins of some possessed séance manifestated by the reflection of an artist in a spell of contrition lay above his eyes. Its facade of fleshy ornaments and elements to render a perception such as this was too horrifying to abnegate as a melancholic piece of Art.
It was too arbitrarily attentive to decimation than it was to passion.
“Gerard! What’s all the noise up there?” Gerard’s mother yelled from the descent of downstairs, concerned vocals measured from the dynamics of her voice.
He tried to remain mild and calm. “Nothing to worry about mom…”
“Well, if you’re going to stay up all night painting, I left some coffee for you downstairs,” Mrs. Way’s shrill voice broadened to a tamer tone.
Gerard was tied onto a façade of desperado. In this scenario of which his life never dreamed of encountering, was a reflection of all his hard work and passion delved into his Art, but it’s pristine pride gnashing against no9thing to the attentive.
"I'll get coffee," he said as he stomped out of the room, still cluttered from the explosion of sherbet bombs of wild color and hues and gradientials of all breeds.
Downstairs, a fragile table was set open in the wink of sanded light as a mug of coffee was let out to shine as if it were presenting itself to Gerard.
How harmless that little mug of heaven looked, unmarred and untouched by anyone and inviting Gerard's senses to indulge and drink.
“How cute. A small mug of coffee. At least mom and dad never chose to option anything else—and they had to choose Starbucks. Joy.” Gerard said in a tone inevitably sardonic, yet in a drowsy, almost drunk persona.
He randomly strewed his coffee stirrer into the colloided liquid. Thinking the steam would replenish his thoughts and make him forget of his haughty put-down, he concentrated on the waves intrigued by the cascading coffee.
Although, it did more than just make him relax...
He also fell to a very heavy sleep...
Next evening...
Solemnly tired did he lay on the bed, the ceiling suspended above him, casting the illusion of the sky to drift in his mind. The peaceful, ebonic oblivion of sleep should have flattered the lashes on Gerard's eyes, but unfortunately fell to failure.
The expanding moonbeam sliced silver and cut like the hairsbreadth of glass against a worn leather scabbard. Perfection was distilled by the clouds that hovered over the moon. Ivory highlighted by silver flowed tranquil divinity over the undone floor.
He longed for a dream to drift him upon the words of sleep. But so many thoughts occupied his mind and obliterated the faint drowsy stimulation intrigued by slumber.
Above all the contrasted figures that defined an impression over the black oblivion of the night, the corona that would introduce the liberation of sunrise reigned over his emotions.
The caterwauling sound of the clock artlessly seconded the linear ideals that endlessly flowed within the boundaries surrounding his mind. A period sauntering drowsily within the dark hours awakes no meaning of being awake at all.
How ironic it was for him to liberate thoughts in his mind, yet simultaneously he felt so exhausted with them being the only ideas that stood to glide free within his mind.
To calisthenisize the mood to sleep was an obstacle the night had to warm a threshold on him. Could he concentrate in doing so? He was much too disablorn by lethargy to sharpen his thoughts onto one particular panorama in mind.
Since the matter of his disdain occurred, he could not conjure focus to his head. In his desire to bask the ideas from his mind, he quixoticAlly sought help from his other artistic friend, Allison, whose house he sleptover in that night.
Probably it was the heavy curtains that bothered him. Or the emblazing effect subdued by the coffee he drank last night. Or maybe it was his self-proclaimed lack of imagination?
"Ali?" He enquired, delving for Allison's face in the darkness.
He perceived her sketching at the foot of her bed, her lampshade directly overhead from the spot she was drawing on.
"Gee? You can't sleep either?" Allison looked up from her sketchpad.
Gerard nodded drowsily. "Yeah...my mind's on something I can't wrap my finger on..."
He groaned, as Allison was still in the midst of her sketching. She did not seem to take much novice--she seemed well focused on her drawing to answer.
She was sketching a scene of the Ravens and Falcons searing the flesh of the skies at a midnight of a golden crystalline soul's dream.
Allison stroked soft yet evident strokes on the paper, molding it into the shape of a Raven as she curved its wings and revealed its evident feathers of ebonic silver and highlighted them in ivory white, perfectly established in well-orchestrated detail.
The Falcon she sketched was of the gray scaled hue with golden yellow eyes and black brows. Jessica sharpened the texture of the rusted beak, adding yellow streaks to give it evident beams of light flowing on it.
"Mmm...good for you...you are still able to draw birds well..." Gerard said, noticing much of the light, mild drawing as its beauty began to unfold.
"Good only for me?" Allison scoffed. "Since when did you have Artist's block?"
"So that’s what they call it when Artists develop lack of imagination for a small time…”Gerard replied.
Allison reluctantly riveted the direction of her friend’s sentence. “Who said you have a lack of imagination? Everyone, even the best Artists in the world have Artist’s block! I mean, look at Van Gogh!”
Gerard treasoned, “He got over his contusion by cutting his own ear off!”
Allison fumbled over her words, “W-what I mean is…he got off his contusion SOMEHOW…but not in a good Way either…but at least he got over it. If he could, why can’t you?”
Then suddenly, in memorobilia of one certain oblation, Gerard got a sudden vision of an untimely experience of his last night. "Also I remember having this...dream..."