The Paintbrush

My atoms trembled excitedly as I unseeingly felt the hand of a young child picked me up. Its soft, pudgy hands slightly greased with sweat wrapped around my delicate frame. "I know you don't think I'm alive," I thought hard, hoping to send my intentions through its fleshy structure. "I know you think I'm just a stick with a soft, fibrous tip, but I'm alive, really. And I can make your dreams and ideas come alive if you'd only take me with you." I felt myself being lifted and inspected, feeling a sort of adrenaline coursing through me as I was waved around carelessly. Maybe my wielder wasn't the most experienced, or the most responsible, and maybe in the child's hands I faced impending doom, but I itched to serve the purpose I was created for. A decision seemed to be made, as for a lengthy string of time I remained in the warm embrace of its hand, knowing that its suspension was what kept me afloat and swinging through the cool air, almost like flying. The promise of fulfillment rose in me as I soared and I settled in contentment, hardly caring when the child recklessly allowed me to clatter on the ground a few times.

Some time later I felt myself laid upon a cold, hard surface, once more a simple inanimate object, without the exhilarating command of my wielder to propel my potential energy. And so I lay, expectant. Measurement wasn't something I was- or ever would be- introduced to, but 'too long' would be a good enough unit for me. After 'too long', I once more felt the sudden warmth of those same, soon-to-be familiar hands, which fumbled with me for a while as they toyed with the other items laid across the same surface. I was patient with its clumsiness but very eager to be used. "Come on," I urged the youth. "I have as much the desire to create as you. Without you I'm void of that power, and without me you are as well." Eventually I felt my unused bristles scrape across a new surface, a damp surface that clung to me as I rose and dipped onto a slightly textured sheet. Ecstasy bubbled in my being as I dipped, rose and flew, saddening when our time together was done and I was run over with water, the stains washing from my hairs.

As it was an adolescent, I deduced it spent its time with other activities, other playthings, and inklings of jealousy would trickle into my thoughts."Child, you enjoy playing. So let us play God," I would attempt to coax it telepathically, though of course I didn't possess any telekinetic powers. I relished the feeling of power as it held me, but needed the guidance of another being to provide it.Periodically, the child would once more pick me up and commence the cycle, which differed each time in purpose and movement. Each time I would track the inexperienced but certain strokes we made across the page, imagining the image, the world that we were creating.

Over time I grew to know the intentions of the strokes- angry, wistful, melancholic, amused, joyful- and through the remembrance of our trails I could see the world that it saw, the worlds it created through our medium, and its emotions reflected in them.The overwhelming desire and sense of power dwindled as the more intimate sentiments of affection and understanding replaced it.Together we painted countless pictures, some similar to others, some with vastly different concept and imagination and feeling. I wasn't sure if the child was aware of it, but we were friends in my mind. Unknowingly it shared its most delicate thoughts and feelings with me, before sharing them with the rest of its world, and even then the world probably wouldn't decipher them the way I did. "I'm here," I would say wordlessly as it once more folded its fingers around me, sometimes trembling. "I understand. Let's do this together." Whether I helped or not was beyond my knowledge, but I like to think I did, since by the end of our routine the shaking would stop, the unsure and unreleased energy exhausted on concentrated work. Perhaps my intended purpose was not merely to paint and create, but to serve as its trusted companion and to be the one to share its mind and soul with. This idea spurned a new feeling of meaning and fulfillment within me, a deeper one. It did damper my mood a bit to think that maybe my connection with the child was unrequited, but I cherished it all the same.

I could feel the child grow, or rather the hand that belonged to it. There were some instances where the size would be considerably larger since the last time it held me, but for the most part the changes were subtle. Sometimes I could sense hesitation in the strokes, the childhood confidence lost in the careful calculations of perfection.Sometimes the image was dropped and scrapped altogether."Draw with your heart, my friend, not with your head," I thought whenever these pauses occurred. These falters confused me; I couldn't be sure how it was feeling, if it was lying to me or not. I felt oddly betrayed, though I knew it wasn't intentionally doing this to me, but it was like the friend that I'd known for so long and knew so well was suddenly slipping from me, refusing to open up and embrace the comforts I would so eagerly give if only it'd ask. I accepted that this was simply part of adulthood, that maybe its transition into this new stage was confusing, and this was cause for its indecisive lines. But my faith in it swayed further as time rolled on. It steadily regained its confidence, though of the practiced kinds, but others like me were slowly integrated into our routine, to my dismay, and the entire image was lost to me; I was only able to pick up the fragments of picture that I was used for.

If I were able to, I would have trembled as my friend had used to do. I could do nothing about the situation but cope with my envy and hurt. I learned to make peace with this new cycle, though I was still unhappy with it. The moods in the hand were no longer as varied as they once were. The feelings of anger, happiness and sadness were mostly replaced with 'decisiveness' and 'hesitation'. Though the time spent with us was longer than it once had been, I didn't enjoy it. The power I once felt in being used and guided were long gone, and I felt powerless, now simply obeying my wielder's hand as it drew out the formulas that it no doubt meticulously formed in its head. "Draw with your heart..." I would try fruitlessly to inspire. "Please, please try." To be shut out from the world of the adult who had once been the child, to not be able to grow and experience the world with it as it grew and experienced, was so, so painful.

And one day the world was returned and lost to me forever. The hand that was once so small and warm and lively was now large, and strong but constricted. It held me as it normally did, but on this day a certain vigor could be felt coursing through its arm. I could sense that the feeling was a negative one, but it was still emotion, and I was surprised and joyful of its presence. The strokes were strange though, quick, short and more calculated than usual, and I was the only one being used. Still, this outburst of spirit and unshared favor sparked nostalgia and tenderness in me, and I forgave the odd style. "You've come back to me," I thought with relief, hoping it would receive my silent message. "My child, my friend, you've come back."

That was the last time I felt its hand embrace me. A very long time went by, and I expectantly waited for my wielder to return, as lively and passionate as it had been. But it never did return, and my hope slowly vanished as the pain crept up from behind. Why, when it had suddenly become so ardent, did it abandon me? What had driven its passion? Where did it go? Did it ever adore me as much as I did it? Will it ever come back (please come back)? The questions still linger in my head, unanswered, along with the final image it had made worldly. I constantly ponder the meaning of it, for they are lines and symbols I'd never seen before:

"This is where I part, cruel world. Goodbye."