"The world is incomplete," the boy said to himself. He felt there was so much beauty within this atmosphere, yet there was something he could not find. He recounted how rivers flow never-ending, fire cracks indefinitely, and the snow atop mountains never melts. He knows these things, but cannot feel them. The boy can appreciate and respect these things but falls short of recognizing their beauty.
So, he bought as many books as he could. Reading them, the boy figured he could write too. He turned to writing wonders onto paper. He captured Earth and the little lives it contained. He wrote pages and he amassed books upon books. He stylized his world through his own eyes and could understand it. Though, he still could not feel it. He could write all that he wanted and still feel the same as he once did. He wrote until his hand was tired, his eyes weary and bloodshot. The world he wrote of was gray and dull: the lives a dreary mess of what they were supposed to be. As he wrote tales forged in despair, a melody swelled to his ears.
He shelved his books and threw papers in a drawer. He went alone and bought the albums of any artist he had heard of before. He played the records and found beauty in these too. Here, as the likes of Freddie Mercury and Stevie Nicks wailed on, he could finally feel all the beauty the world encompassed. He could feel how lovingly the clouds dropped rain on the leaves of flowers. He bought a guitar to harness this reservoir. He plucked the strings until his fingers bled. He sang until his throat was hoarse. Though he could feel it, he still felt there was a part missing. He realized he couldn't see this beautiful world. He could not picture the sonnets and choruses he wrote.
The boy took his sore hands and gravelly throat to find more paper and pencils. He drew whatever image he could muster. He drew pictures of animals, beaches, and forests. When his pencils were dull and the graphite receded, he went and found clay. He sculpted trees and captivating landscapes. He found relief in seeing. He could finally understand, feel, and see these creations. Yet, he could not seem to displace his feeling of detachment. His drawings were stunning, though masked in a pencil gray. His sculptures were breathtaking, yet lacked movement. After giving himself to all these creations, the boy grew bleak and sorrowful.
The next day, a dark, rainy day, the boy awoke with a mission. He grabbed his books and papers and threw them in the rain. He shattered his records atop the books and smashed his guitar in a heap before destroying his art and sculptures. Another boy walking in the rain took notice of the destruction. This new boy ran over and looked at the sad boy. He recognized the tears in the sad boy's eyes. The new boy grabbed him by the face consolingly.
The sad boy said, "What's the point? It'll never be enough."
The new boy regarded him for a moment before saying, "It is enough. And so are you. All of this art is extraordinary, it's as beautiful as the boy who made it."
"But... there's always someth-"
The new boy kissed him with an ease found in only those who understand, feel, and see. He saw the pain in his eyes, he felt the forgotten pain within himself.
The changed boy understood then. The world was missing him. It was missing his love. It was the part of him that made him himself. The boy needed love to truly appreciate the intricacies of beauty. He went alone all this time, he hid this love until he could not.
The new boy broke the kiss. He said, "You are the world."
