Think about your most treasured possessions. 

Really? Now think again.

If your answer is anything in the realm of being physical right now, you’re wrong.

Now, think about your memories; which one is most precious to you?

What are you without your memories? That’s right, nothing. But is that true?

Go back to your favorite possession. Is it the same? 

It should be.

Without your memories, you are lost.

Pit pat. 

Pause. 

Pit pat pit. 

The faraway grumble of thunder had gotten closer by the minute.

Pit pit pat.

In a room with sandpaper walls, was a man. 

He was unconscious. Colored lights rimmed the room dimly, but the desk was lit perfectly. 

On the desk, set neatly in front of the dreamer, was a pristine sheet of paper–It would almost be a crime to mar the perfect white. Next to it, lay a set of sketching pencils. Raylen Gold.

Two blue eyes shine bright, finally free from the prison of sleep.

He sat up carefully, squinting at the room around him. Finally, his eyes landed on the sheet of paper and pencils. 

He picked up a pencil. Rolling the familiar wood on his fingers, he closed his eyes and thought. 

He thought about his life, and smiled at all the good moments.

And then, he was gone. 

There was no more room, no more paper.

Tom August Christie was a boy of sixteen years of age. He was a quiet fellow, only giving the seemingly required “hello” or “goodbye”. Tom was noble as they come, and never gave anybody so much as a glare. 

One time, some boys had been playing in the river–against their mothers’ advice–and a gator got a good hold of one of the boy’s legs. Now Tom couldn’t just stand there and watch. Despite coming from church in his best suit and tie, he jumped right in and saved that poor boy.

Other times, Tom just sat on a tree stump and sketched the scenery, and when he caught sight of some pretty girl, he’d add her to his collection too.

He loved getting a new notebook or box of Raylen Gold pencils. The smell of new paper and graphite always made him smile.

One night, when the world seemed exceptionally bright, Tom sat on the grass with his grandmother. He had brought out an old chair for her to sit and knit in. 

A soft breeze rolled in from the hills, stirring the trees. Tom sat there for a while, wondering how the world could seem so big and small at the same time.

The needles paused, and Tom's grandmother him firmly by the hand and said, 

“Tom, you promise me that when you go as high as you can go, that you will not ever, in God’s great world, forget where you came from. When the days get greyer than anyone ought to ever see, carry on.”

She looked him hard in the eyes. 

“Someday, you gone lose somebody you care ‘bout. Don’t let it stop you from reachin’ for the stars. You gone get there, someday. You gone get there.”

She rocked back and forth in her chair, and they both watched the fireflies, and later, the stars.

And the light went out.

The paper was full of the scene, fresh from his memory.

Looking down, Tom furrowed his brow; he didn’t remember what had happened that day, so long ago. Come to think of it, he couldn’t remember anything.

The paper was alive with his life, now stolen from him. 

He searched the lines, looking for something he’d known he lost, but to no avail.

The rainstorm had just passed, and rays of sunlight shone through the colored windows, and for a second, Tom felt hope. The kind of hope that nobody hears.

Looking back down at the page, he yawned; he just felt so tired all of a sudden.

And so, he lay his head down on the desk and told himself it’d only be a moment.

It wasn’t just a moment.

~~~

The body was buried with all of the many others, and the paper was framed. Not many of them got framed, these days. 

Patterns, so many patterns. Just have to find the right one…