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inkstainedfingertipsHe steps back and stares at the finished piece. The normal rush of satisfaction he feels when he gazes at a completed project just isn’t there. He feels… nothing. Truth is, he hasn’t felt much of anything in a long time. Not since she left. Or rather, not since she flounced away with the man she’d been seeing behind his back… his former best friend.
After she’d gone, he tried everything to forget. A lot of alcohol. Even more women. Nothing filled the void she left behind. He’d truly believed she was the one. That she was his forever. Little did he know at the time that she only thought of him as the one for right now. And his best friend became the flavor of the month. He had no doubt she’d tire of him eventually too, and his best friend would be left with what he had… nothing.
He stared at the rocking chair he’d created. It was perfect. He could put it in any showroom, and it would sell for a nice profit. Woodworking was his talent. His gift. Always had been. It had always been the way he’d calmed himself down after a stressful day. There was something about creating something beautiful out of nothing that filled his heart.
But even his craft had failed to bring him solace or the least bit of joy after she’d run out on him. For months, he hadn’t touched his tools. And that void inside of him had grown. For a little while, he’d thought about ending it all. Being nothing seemed preferable to feeling nothing. He had always been a man who felt things deeply. He was passionate. And that passion showed through in his art—his woodcraft.
And she’d stripped that all away from him.
“FUCK!”
He picked up the rocker and hurled it across the room. It hit the wall with a satisfying thud but didn’t break. Grabbing a thick 2x4 he rushed across the room and hammered away at it, the crack and splintering of the wood filling him with a maniacal glee that spurred him on. He wailed on the rocker until his arms were numb, and he was out of breath.
Sweat poured down his face but as he stared at the ruined pile of wood, he smiled and felt the first twinge of satisfaction he’d felt in months. And that broke his heart. He was a man who created beauty. But knowing the only feeling he’d mustered was in its destruction filled him with a grief deeper and more profound than he’d ever felt in his life.
He walked out of his workshop and closed the door behind him, silently vowing that he would never set foot in it again.
His light and his passion were gone. She’d taken everything from him.
* * * * *
Light poured in through the open door and motes of dust dance in the golden rays. The workshop smelled of disuse. It smelled of sadness. But the light welcomed him back like an old friend and he felt his heart lift.
“Hello, old friends,” he said.
It had been months since he’d last set foot in his workshop. He had come very close to ending it all one night. He’d had too much to drink one night and wrapped his car around a telephone pole. He had hovered on the edge of death and in that silence, teetering on the edge of oblivion, he realized just how much he wanted to live.
It was shortly after that he began to see a doctor. A shrink. It was something he never thought he would do, but he didn’t know how to handle his grief on his own. It wasn’t the same grief as losing somebody you love to death. It was worse because they were gone from your life, but they weren’t gone. And sometimes, you would run into them and see how happy they looked, and it would just eat at your brain and your guts all over again. It was a living death. At least for him.
So, he’d gone to a shrink to help him make sense of himself. And the new world he was living in. A world without her. It had taken him weeks to understand, but she’d finally managed to get it through his thick head by putting it in terms he could relate to. To get over the old project, you had to start a new project. Then that new project would become the focus of your life and eventually, you would learn to forget the old one.
It was simplistic, she said. But it made sense to him. As he looked at the pile of broken wood in the corner—the old rocking chair he’d destroyed, it still upset him that he did that. To forget about it, he needed to build something new. He needed to create something beautiful. And once he did, once he was able to appreciate this new creation, he would forget about the broken and discarded pile of wood in the corner.
He knew it was a simplistic, perhaps childish way of seeing things, but it made sense to him. And so, he started anew.
He was dedicated to building this new thing—and his new life. His new self. He was determined to leave the past behind him. So, he’d collected the remains of the rocking chair and burned it, saying goodbye to every piece as he fed it into the flames. And once that old rocking chair had been reduced to ash, he got started on his new project.
His new purpose.
For weeks, he sawed and cut.
He sanded and stained.
He leveled and beveled.
His therapist had made him see to begin a new life and leave the past where it belonged, he needed to do it symbolically. With something new. Something beautiful. And he was determined to make this the most beautiful thing he’d ever created with his own two hands.
For weeks, he’d labored over his new creation, working long into the night. Working until his shoulders ached and his hands bled. Until he was soaked with sweat and exhausted. He’d slept in the warm embrace of his workshop, preferring to bask in the glow of the beauty of his creation rather than his cold bed.
He would put an end to his old life and begin anew. He would rid himself of thoughts of her and his treacherous best friend. He would free his mind and his soul. And he would then be free to truly begin building his life once more.
He wiped the sweat from his brow and stepped back, taking in his creation. They were things of beauty. The perfect symbol for ending his old life and beginning his new one. He ran his fingertips along the soft, dark wood and smiled. It was flawless.
“Perfect,” he said.
Side by side, the two coffins stood silently, gleaming in the dim light of his workshop. The hard work was done. There was just one last thing he had to do, and he would forever be free from the shackles the past that kept him locked in place.
One last thing he had to do to be free of her at last.
After she’d gone, he tried everything to forget. A lot of alcohol. Even more women. Nothing filled the void she left behind. He’d truly believed she was the one. That she was his forever. Little did he know at the time that she only thought of him as the one for right now. And his best friend became the flavor of the month. He had no doubt she’d tire of him eventually too, and his best friend would be left with what he had… nothing.
He stared at the rocking chair he’d created. It was perfect. He could put it in any showroom, and it would sell for a nice profit. Woodworking was his talent. His gift. Always had been. It had always been the way he’d calmed himself down after a stressful day. There was something about creating something beautiful out of nothing that filled his heart.
But even his craft had failed to bring him solace or the least bit of joy after she’d run out on him. For months, he hadn’t touched his tools. And that void inside of him had grown. For a little while, he’d thought about ending it all. Being nothing seemed preferable to feeling nothing. He had always been a man who felt things deeply. He was passionate. And that passion showed through in his art—his woodcraft.
And she’d stripped that all away from him.
“FUCK!”
He picked up the rocker and hurled it across the room. It hit the wall with a satisfying thud but didn’t break. Grabbing a thick 2x4 he rushed across the room and hammered away at it, the crack and splintering of the wood filling him with a maniacal glee that spurred him on. He wailed on the rocker until his arms were numb, and he was out of breath.
Sweat poured down his face but as he stared at the ruined pile of wood, he smiled and felt the first twinge of satisfaction he’d felt in months. And that broke his heart. He was a man who created beauty. But knowing the only feeling he’d mustered was in its destruction filled him with a grief deeper and more profound than he’d ever felt in his life.
He walked out of his workshop and closed the door behind him, silently vowing that he would never set foot in it again.
His light and his passion were gone. She’d taken everything from him.
Light poured in through the open door and motes of dust dance in the golden rays. The workshop smelled of disuse. It smelled of sadness. But the light welcomed him back like an old friend and he felt his heart lift.
“Hello, old friends,” he said.
It had been months since he’d last set foot in his workshop. He had come very close to ending it all one night. He’d had too much to drink one night and wrapped his car around a telephone pole. He had hovered on the edge of death and in that silence, teetering on the edge of oblivion, he realized just how much he wanted to live.
It was shortly after that he began to see a doctor. A shrink. It was something he never thought he would do, but he didn’t know how to handle his grief on his own. It wasn’t the same grief as losing somebody you love to death. It was worse because they were gone from your life, but they weren’t gone. And sometimes, you would run into them and see how happy they looked, and it would just eat at your brain and your guts all over again. It was a living death. At least for him.
So, he’d gone to a shrink to help him make sense of himself. And the new world he was living in. A world without her. It had taken him weeks to understand, but she’d finally managed to get it through his thick head by putting it in terms he could relate to. To get over the old project, you had to start a new project. Then that new project would become the focus of your life and eventually, you would learn to forget the old one.
It was simplistic, she said. But it made sense to him. As he looked at the pile of broken wood in the corner—the old rocking chair he’d destroyed, it still upset him that he did that. To forget about it, he needed to build something new. He needed to create something beautiful. And once he did, once he was able to appreciate this new creation, he would forget about the broken and discarded pile of wood in the corner.
He knew it was a simplistic, perhaps childish way of seeing things, but it made sense to him. And so, he started anew.
He was dedicated to building this new thing—and his new life. His new self. He was determined to leave the past behind him. So, he’d collected the remains of the rocking chair and burned it, saying goodbye to every piece as he fed it into the flames. And once that old rocking chair had been reduced to ash, he got started on his new project.
His new purpose.
For weeks, he sawed and cut.
He sanded and stained.
He leveled and beveled.
His therapist had made him see to begin a new life and leave the past where it belonged, he needed to do it symbolically. With something new. Something beautiful. And he was determined to make this the most beautiful thing he’d ever created with his own two hands.
For weeks, he’d labored over his new creation, working long into the night. Working until his shoulders ached and his hands bled. Until he was soaked with sweat and exhausted. He’d slept in the warm embrace of his workshop, preferring to bask in the glow of the beauty of his creation rather than his cold bed.
He would put an end to his old life and begin anew. He would rid himself of thoughts of her and his treacherous best friend. He would free his mind and his soul. And he would then be free to truly begin building his life once more.
He wiped the sweat from his brow and stepped back, taking in his creation. They were things of beauty. The perfect symbol for ending his old life and beginning his new one. He ran his fingertips along the soft, dark wood and smiled. It was flawless.
“Perfect,” he said.
Side by side, the two coffins stood silently, gleaming in the dim light of his workshop. The hard work was done. There was just one last thing he had to do, and he would forever be free from the shackles the past that kept him locked in place.
One last thing he had to do to be free of her at last.
