What Dreams are Made Of_Part Ten: A Fire Within.

At the base of the hill there was a tall oak. Standing beneath bold grey branches that crisscrossed over the sky, he scanned the foreground. Each spattered texture and scumbled brush mark that defined this uncanny dream was embedded intimately within. To conclude his journey here, in the midst of his own creation was not an end he could have augured.

It began to rain. Cold white paint turned to icy slush. The scant leaves that still clung to the oak tree began to melt and run down the boughs in shades of brown and green. The bark itself peeled away in paint and sludge; it moved in slow furrows against the rugged trunk.

He stood there helpless, hands raised in supplication. Moonlight pierced the rainclouds and froze his pitiful gesture in stark relief.

His skin began to lose its color. Underneath the hue that made him whole was a chalky coating that was subdivide into planes and crosshatched in charcoal. He could see the structure beneath the cloak of reality and the horror of his undoing reeled his imagination. 

So here it was finally, the endless feeling that ran like a thread through his life. He struggled to remember his happiest moments: a paintbrush dancing in his hand; practicing guitar until he'd fallen asleep beside it; the poetry that formed his inmost thoughts; the times he’d felt loved…

A soft voice came from behind the oak tree, “If you are cold, you should paint yourself a fire.”

To be continued.