As a boy, music had been a language that Shane spoke fluently. It had not taken him long to realise that the notes of a song seemed more familiar to him than the faces of those around him. The darkness of his mind had constantly yearned for a release, desperate to taint a blank stave with black notes. His mental state craved for an outlet, aching for some sort of relief to the dark thoughts that were slowly clawing their way into his mind.

There had been nothing else he wanted to do other than to spend his life submerged in music. His one wish had been to turn the dark thoughts into a melody that was able to communicate emotions with the people who were willing to listen. His free time had been filled with words and symphonies that leaked from his bedroom walls into the proud tears of his mother as she listened downstairs.

The guitar had been his instrument of disclosure, finding that he could only express himself through melodic strums and half written lyrics. So light had his mind been that he often found himself considering putting his patients to sleep with nothing but a sweet lullaby.

Spending his life sharing music with the world should have been a dream. It should have been something that put a twinkle in his eyes and happiness in his smile. It didn't. What should have created an expression of joy manufactured a face drained of all colour. It left him empty. Giving so many songs to the world had brought him to the realisation that they were no longer his own. The words that had come from the deepest, darkest part of him were no someone else's. Those lyrics that had gotten him through some of his most terrifying years were now for someone else to chant, not for them to ponder. Not for them to connect with. He had given part of himself away to a world that cared for nothing but his face on a magazine cover.

Over time he found the lyrics decaying as soon as they hit the paper. He found himself no longer willing to write, churning out songs like some kind of broken machine. With no meaning. No purpose. Only to be there. Only to be a smile on an album cover. Only to be a laugh on a talk show. Only to be a voice on the radio. Only to be the person that the world needed him to be.

Nothing had made him want to write. The more the world was inspired by him, the less he was inspired by the world. He had lost his flare. His lyrics no longer held meaning.

He could not write.

Nothing made him want to write.

Nothing inspired him to write.

Except for Cleo.

Cleo.

The one speck of colour on a black and white stave.