Headlights

Joey wrote. He wrote on a yellow legal pad that he had purchased at the 99 Cent Store. He wanted to write about what it was that had brought him to this point. Those few key decisions. What had he been thinking? Why had he not just done the usual, obvious, logical thing? He wanted to write about the small little prayers he had made, pleading for the simple, elegant, deep-felt needs he yanked out of his heart in times of pain and turmoil. Someone to love. Wishing upon a star. A simple job near home. Always with the secret desires for more that were hidden from himself, yet oh-so-conscious and obvious to everyone else. Wanting passion, excitement, fame, fortune and the ego-driven wish to be, not just loved, but worshiped.

His prayers had been answered. Someone had loved him. The relationship was nothing like what he had imagined when he had wished upon a star. It had been violent and ended tragically. The jobs had plopped in his lap over and over again only to become, complicated, time-consuming and unrewarding. Yes, there was a certain kind of simplicity in having no power or respect. Yet there was still responsibility and expectations. Demands were made, of course. It was like being in school. He had wanted to stare out of the window, doodle and daydream. It was always quite amazing when he realized that there was something else he was supposed to be doing. Like paying attention, thinking, learning, performing some function that he felt always to be quite unimportant and demeaning. And yet that was the purpose of him being at that particular spot. To perform exactly those duties without groaning and complaining. That was what someone was paying him for.

How odd. Didn’t they realize this was all just theatrics and he was only the supporting character who made people laugh… The comedy relief who the audience loved. Never the leading man. Never really taken seriously. The grumpy, peculiar side-kick.

He had aimlessly breezed through life as if he were a leaf in the wind that wanted to settle in some magical spot. Instead he had blown through whirlwinds and ended up in the gutter looking up at grimy skyscrapers and wondering… How could he return to that forest he had originated from? Was there any way?

Joey doodled on the edge of the yellow pad and could not write any of this. He put the paper down. He stared out of the window at headlights in the rain. Actually he liked the doodles quite a lot. Maybe that was what his life was. Just a bunch of doodles. Someday he would be gone and someone would either like them or not. Maybe they would hang in a small frame beside someone’s desk for years. Likable, yet not dramatic to put over the fireplace. Lovable in it’s familiarity. Unsigned. Some person would look at it often and wonder who created it and what they had meant by the drawing. They would never guess that it was one man’s attempt to explain life. In that regard the picture would be a failure. Yet the viewer would project so many of his or her own emotions on these meaningless squiggles, that in time, they would take on purpose.

That is all.

Headlights

John Fish

Los Angeles, United States

  • Artist
    Notes
  • Artwork Comments 5

Artwork Comments

  • Richard G Witham
  • butchart
  • pryere
  • Antanas
  • LavenderMoon
desktop tablet-landscape content-width tablet-portrait workstream-4-across phone-landscape phone-portrait
desktop tablet-landscape content-width tablet-portrait workstream-4-across phone-landscape phone-portrait

10% off

for joining the Redbubble mailing list

Receive exclusive deals and awesome artist news and content right to your inbox. Free for your convenience.