Hey Everyone! Ok, so I had just posted my latest chapter. The ninth took a long time to actually piece together considering of all the other things I've got going on in life, but I made it!!! Thanks for all the support and especially the criticism. Sometimes I wonder how people can always just be satisfied with always winning, always getting everything perfect. I have a few friends that are very much perfectionists and that's all ok, but in my opinion it can truly get to your head when you win too much you know? Anyway, thank you for everything. Have a nice Valentines Day!
We sat there in silence, Calsipher and I, in the tent.
I had never considered it to be an actual enjoyable past-time, to paint. Before that first morning, my first time of having the choice, the freedom, of what to paint, I hadn't considered art to be at all expressive and intuitive.
Indeed, I had only been intuitive of my teacher Mrs, Reno's feelings and artwork. Not of my own. It was looked down upon, for a woman to think for herself. My goodness how amazing it felt to sit here on floor of the tent and just poor out my nightmare onto the mural.
Calsipher glanced over at my drawing. It was of another thing I had noticed in my dream. It was of an elder man, walking in the streets. It would seem he was a beggar. Anyway, he had this broken smile, literally broken, like he had been unable to work, the left side muscles of his mouth, and he was glaring at me. Not only that, but he was sending me pain, through those eyes.
Everything about it was horrid. He had this crooked finger that pointed towards light, towards hope. All I could remember that as he pointed at it, his eyes became black and the light faded fast and as I was nearly sucked into the black pit as well, I awoke.
"Where did you see that?" Calsipher chocked out, frightening me out of my entire flashback.
I glanced over to his painting and gestured to it, "I should ask the same thing about yours."
Calsipher seemed terribly disturbed by this comment. "What?" he became rigid.
"That painting… How could you have painting something from my nightmare?" I added.
"I…" he began, now thoroughly horrified. After a long moments' silence he whispered, "So you saw it too…"
It was not a question, but I felt compelled to answer it anyway.
"Yes."
At that point, I'd had enough. I did not find the courage to look at him. It was all I could bear to get up and not flee out of the tent.
I walked out rigidly, fearing what I was to make of this and knowing that as much as I want to avoid it, it keeps coming back.
Why does it keep coming back?