Rays of Yesterday

➸Chapter Two: Web of Dreams

The weather was lovely. The air was still, but it was not too brisk nor too warm; it was just right. The sun had shone down all day almost, and Vincent had been outside for hours...since daybreak, taking advantage of the pleasant weather, getting lost in a completely different world of his own.

Vincent's dark eyebrows furrowed, and his eyes stared down in concentration as the left rows of teeth trapped the tip of his tongue. His index finger and thumb tip pinched the ends of the pen he held so steadily. He was creating a wonderful picture, drawn in all straight and checkered stroke patterns; what some may say was tedious work, but it was somewhat therapeutic for him.

Against the pure black void were crisp, white outlines of arms, parts of arms, and hands reaching out for something to grab only to remain still, in place in the vast space, and too far apart for any contact. All but one pair that is. An outline of a left hand, drawn from the top with its five digits drooping while an outstretched right hand came from below, desperately trying to grasp a hold of the one above. The tips of their fingers were only an inch away, yet they struggled to connect; a sense of longing would swiftly be replaced with lonely dread as doodles of flower petals mixed into the background.

On the page beside it appeared a small poem written moments before:

𝔄 𝔣𝔞𝔦𝔯 𝔪𝔞𝔦𝔡, 𝔩𝔦𝔳𝔢𝔩𝔶 𝔞𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔰𝔢 𝔟𝔢𝔞𝔲𝔱𝔢𝔬𝔲𝔰 𝔯𝔬𝔲𝔤𝔢 𝔭𝔢𝔬𝔫𝔦𝔢𝔰, 𝔴𝔥𝔬𝔪'𝔰𝔱 𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔪𝔰 ℑ 𝔰𝔥𝔞𝔩𝔱 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔩𝔬𝔫𝔤𝔢𝔯 𝔰𝔭𝔦𝔫.
𝔖𝔥𝔢 𝔴𝔥𝔬𝔪 𝔰𝔲𝔫𝔤 𝔱𝔬 𝔪𝔢 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥 𝔱𝔢𝔞𝔯𝔰, 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔰𝔥𝔢 𝔨𝔫𝔢𝔴 𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔣𝔞𝔱𝔢𝔰.
𝔄 𝔣𝔞𝔦𝔯 𝔪𝔞𝔦𝔡, 𝔬𝔫𝔠𝔢 𝔩𝔦𝔳𝔢𝔩𝔶 𝔞𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔰𝔢 𝔶𝔢𝔩𝔩𝔬𝔴 𝔭𝔢𝔬𝔫𝔦𝔢𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 ℑ 𝔫𝔬𝔴 𝔰𝔢𝔢 𝔪𝔢𝔩𝔞𝔫𝔠𝔥𝔬𝔩𝔶;
𝔉𝔬𝔯 𝔥𝔢𝔯 𝔣𝔯𝔞𝔦𝔩 𝔣𝔩𝔬𝔴𝔢𝔯 𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔪 𝔬𝔣 𝔞 𝔣𝔬𝔯𝔪 𝔴𝔦𝔩𝔩 𝔤𝔯𝔬𝔴 𝔱𝔬𝔬 𝔴𝔢𝔞𝔨 𝔦𝔫 𝔥𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔱𝔥𝔲𝔰 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔤𝔢𝔞𝔯𝔰 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔦𝔪𝔢;
𝔚𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔰𝔱 ℑ 𝔢𝔫𝔡𝔲𝔯𝔢 𝔤𝔲𝔩𝔭𝔰 𝔬𝔣 𝔟𝔦𝔱𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔤𝔞𝔩𝔩 𝔣𝔯𝔬𝔪 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔣𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱𝔞𝔦𝔫 𝔬𝔣 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔱𝔥 𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔪𝔬𝔯𝔢.

-𝓥𝓲𝓷𝓬𝓮𝓷𝓽 𝓢𝓪𝓿𝓲𝓵𝓮

Vincent pulled the ink-tipped delicate pen away from the thin pages, a breath stiff yet full of relief as nothing extra had bled and ruined his work. His eyes scanned over his unfinished drawings, brows gradually knitting and expression contorting in deep ponder. It would be nice if there were colors other than just black ink. Vincent wanted the flowers to be light pinks, some happy yellow, and the ripped part stems an olive green once he was finished, but colors were expensive! He once complained to his mother about the lack of color on a random occasion, and she suggested that he start to pick and crush plants and fruits while wandering about outside to make the colors. It was a good idea; it was free of charge and a resource granted by bare nature for him to take...the pigments could be excellent, no doubt. However, the thought of the colors staining his skin and potentially getting stuck under his fingernails turned him off the idea altogether. An uncomfortable shiver ran through his body every time the feeling of 'what if' popped up in his head.

But oh, one day, he will be able to purchase colors without a second thought to the price. One day he will be able to support his parents financially until their dying days, and one day his name will be remembered as one of many influencers to English writing...but was it healthy to fantasize about it so much? Realistically, he knew fantasizing about an uncertain and slim chance of a future stripped away from the eye. On the other hand, one can dream, can't they? There was no physical harm, at least.