Crumpled victims torn from metallic binding were scattered across the wooden surface like fallen soldiers. The furrows and creases that covered the sheets matched those on the face of the man seated behind the desk, his features distorted in excruciating concentration. In his calloused hand he held a simple pen, gripping it intensely between his fingers; a physical symptom of his frustration. Every few minutes the crinkles on his forehead suddenly vanished, the skin smoothing itself back into place, and his brown eyes would become illuminated with the concept of an idea. Whenever this happened, his hibernating hand would awaken from its slumber and rapidly begin to jot down the words that had entered his mind. But this process of putting his thoughts onto paper never lasted long; usually he wrote for only a minute before his enlightened expression receded back to its former mask of chagrin. Each time this happened he would shake his head, causing his lengthy dark hair to fall in front of his face; a few strands becoming trapped behind the rims of his glasses. Crunching and crinkling would fill the previously quiet air followed by the “pit-pat” of paper on wood; another causality added to the graveyard of temporarily used trees.

The man let an exasperated sigh escape from his cracked lips; let his head fall creating a dull “thwap” on the desk. He never used to get writers block; at least, not a case this severe. It wasn’t even that he did not know what he wished to write about; his inspiration had arrived that morning along with the paper. Or rather, in the paper. Upon unfolding the stack of news, the front page had instantly ignited an idea that set his thoughts ablaze. In a picture surrounded by tiny, black letters there was a boy wearing a camouflaged uniform and an olive green helmet, in his arms he clutched a large metallic machine gun. Surrounding him were dark heaps lying limp in the dirt. Bodies. Dead bodies. And yet the boy in the picture seemed to hardly notice them, the cold hands of war directing his attention towards the enemy, molding his mind into a state of determination to further raise the number of fatalities. The article was filled with war statistics, heartlessly tolling the deceased as meaningless numbers that simply made each of the soldiers just one of many, instead of single individuals. That was when the paper crumpling first began. The man had tossed the heartless article into the trash, but the feeling it had planted within him was not so easily discarded. The simple black words ignited a potent effect on the man’s stomach, which retched with pure abhorrence. It was his disgruntlement towards the war that had first led the man to take a seat at his desk and start trying to compose. But in his room, all alone, the silence caused his thoughts to retreat rather that create lines, curves, and dots in his notebook. As much as he resisted the idea, he had to admit that he wished Paul was beside him.

Paul McCartney had been his song writing partner ever since he wrote his first line of lyrics. With Paul, the man had the reassurance of having someone honestly critiquing the words that he carefully arranged. He knew that if something was awry with what he wrote, his friend would instantly alert him, and aid him in making the necessary changes. When there was a gap in the chorus, Paul was there to fill it with some ingenious verse that the man could never have thought up himself. While he had never been exactly gentle about his thoughts, the man knew that what his partner spoke was the truth. He could not say the same about his own opinions. He second guessed every word, challenged each verse, and rewrote the chorus a thousand times. Without Paul, the man was plagued with an illness that his immune system could not fight off: doubt.
He closed his eyes and tried to focus his thoughts, a task that usually proved impossible for him to achieve. He turned his attention again to what the paper had reported, and his thoughts kept making their way back to the slumped over bodies. The unbelievable amount of dead soldiers. The unimaginable amount that would be dying today, tomorrow, and for God knows how long. These boys had had mothers, fathers, and possibly even wives and children that had been anxiously awaiting their homecoming; all in vain. And why? Because of a dispute between two governments. Because two groups of people disagreed, millions were dying. Did the president ever don one of those suits shaded different colors of green? Did the legislature ever wield guns and dodge bullets? No. And yet they all seemed to think that the only way to solve disputes was through bloody wars that killed the citizens they were supposed to be representing.
But what if there was a better way, a way of peace and tolerance? The man began to imagine a world where everyone loved each other, despite differences racially, socially, or economically. What he imagined he wrote. A world where everyone lived together, with no separate countries. No war. No hatred. A world where everyone lived life just for the sake of living. His hand could hardly keep up, scrawling untidy letters across the paper, a sheet that would remain flat and never be discarded. As he did so, he pictured Paul nodding in approval.
“Imagine all the people, living life in peace.
You may say I’m a dreamer,
But I’m not the only one.
I hope someday you’ll join us,
And the world will live as one.”