My hand is tattooed with the evidence of my pencil.

It is stained with the purpose in my hands.

The dents in the paper grow deeper, darker, thicker.

My mind wanders.

Music.

Soft, careful, lovely.

The pencil follows the notes as they dance across the page.

And so do I.

We all dance slowly, thoughtfully, and with wonder.

The shavings cling to my hand and don't let go.

The eraser carefully peals away the rough edges.

I've forgotten everything but the music and this piece of paper.

And then there is another distant sound.

It yells at me to wake up.

It insistantly calls.

6th hour is over and so is AP art.

But that's ok because I'll be back tomorrow.

Or maybe I'll get that pencil out again tonight

And we will dance to the beautiful music together.

Art doesn't just make me happy

It makes me fly.