Page 1 of Cryptic Dreams
Poetically Prophetic
ZEPHYR
My brush strokes are quick, so quick they're almost unsteady, as they sweep the oil paint in thick, raw lines. Jagged, raised, hurried swipes of fine fibers over bare canvas. I can't slow down though, not if I want to capture what I've seen to make the vision in my mind's eye permanent in order to analyze it later. I'll analyze it when the tears stop and the fear subsides.
Gods, thefear.
A fear so strong it ripped me from sleep and jolted me from my restful state in a way that had me absolutely terrified. A scream tore from my throat, and tears were streaming down my face. My hands were clammy, my body trembling. Terror is really the only word I can use to describe what I felt when I woke from my dream. Terror and devastating heartbreak. Mourning the loss of something—someone—I don’t know or maybe I’ve known my whole life. The dream was crushing; its weight a thousand elephants on my chest smothering me, suffocating me and leaving me gasping for air.
Maybe not a dream.
A nightmare.
An omen.
Aprophecy.
I continue painting, barely able to see through the never-ending tears spilling from my eyes, hardly able to focus as they stain my cheeks, as my hands shake so violently I worry the brush will slip from my fingers completely.
But I can’t stop.
Just like every other time, whatever I do, however I feel, Ican not stop.
Ever since I was young I’ve had what my mother referred to asvisions from the gods.A gift bestowed upon me in the form of a vibrant imagination, artistic prowess, and the uncanny ability to predict the future while I slept and see the past while I’m awake. My mother was proud, father too, both of them convinced my gift meant I was destined to do great things and not just for myself, but our kind as a whole.
I, on the other hand, have always thought it was a curse. Not my ability to paint, to express myself through splashes of color, to get lost in my canvas and create something beautiful in the midst of so much ugly couldn’t be a curse. No, I was damned by the inability to connect with others because of the supposedgiftsthe Gods of Old bestowed upon me.
No one wants to associate with someone who can see where they’ve been or what they’ve done from a simple touch of my hand. No one wants to be around someone who can strip you raw, make you vulnerable and bare and break through carefully crafted barriers without even trying. No one wants all of their secrets revealed, the ones they hide as well as the ones that haven’t even been created yet. No one likes being under the microscope in a way that exposes every detail, insignificant or otherwise, to a perfect stranger let alone someone likeme.
I’ve learned that the hard way.
It’s a lonely existence, one I’ve adjusted and grown accustomed to, but adapting to my so-calledgiftsand navigating them in the only ways I can still makes living this way so agonizingly lonely. Hollow. Empty.Sad.
So while I suffer alone in my self-imposed exile, I paint. I paint what it would be like to be anyone but me.
Smiling faces: laughing, living, loving. Never alone, always filled with joy and peace, affection and satisfaction. Friends drinking coffee, families strolling through town, couples stealing kisses when they think no one is watching.
Beautiful landscapes blanketed in sunshine, springtime mornings and summertime afternoons. Beaches, meadows, forests. Waterfalls that look like shimmering curtains reflected in the hottest sun, glittering like a million stars and just as tranquil.
I paint everything I will never have because I am destined to be alone, alone and isolated, with my gifts that terrify me and keep everyone else away.
And on days like these, ones where I’m ripped from the only comfort, the only calm I know because the Gods of Old decide to send a message—one that will go ignored by everyone but me—I know for a fact that I am indeedcursed.
Cursed to relive the past.
Cursed to see the future.
Cursed to be completely alone and hollow, terrified and broken for the rest of time.
Slowly, my tears subside, the trembling stops, and with a deep breath, I set my paintbrush down and rub my eyes. They sting and feel like sandpaper scraping over shards of glass, but they aren’t crying anymore, so I’ll take that as a small victory.
The clock on the wall chimes, the quiet musical tone making me all too aware that I was only asleep for maybe an hour or two, and now the most coveted sun is set high in the clear blue sky. Laughing at me, always taunting me, reminding me that I’m not only doomed to wander this world alone, but that I must do it in total darkness as well.
I get to my feet quickly, careful to avoid the cracks in the worn wood, and my movements cautious so that I don’t make a sound despite the need to rush. The need to move as fast as possible over the cold floor in order to return to the only solace I have in these tumultuous and forced conditions.
Quicker still, I empty the jar of murky water and rinse my brushes in the small sink. I move as fast as possible to cap my paints and return them to the shelf, caring for my meager possessions that are prized nonetheless. But when I turn to my easel and attempt to walk past so I can shut off the dim light, my heart stops in my chest before it drops to my stomach, and a new onslaught of tears spring to my eyes.
Flames. Violence. Destruction.
