c y n o s u r e

The pathway winds up towards the paved steps of the apartment entrance, cement edged cleanly along the sides and scattered cracks coils into patterns with every split. The sunlight beams through soft strands of golden as Yifan paces along. The morning is fresh, yellowing leaves crunching under his shoes as he leads himself past gardens of flora and entrances towards elevators.

The thought of notifying the other of his arrival crosses his mind as he presses the button and he steps back, patiently waiting for the escalator to descend. He frowns down with a glance at the standard sketchbook and art pouch carried tucked in his left hand, however, and figures the inconvenience with his occupied hand. Yifan breathes out a sigh followed by muffled mutters behind the warmth of his cream scarf.

He remembers reading the impending notification on his phone last night, and retracing the almost forgotten appointment with the young man. The recent lack of artistry has left him in a irked state with his thoughts constantly drifting afar and distractions ticking at his mind. His brows evidently crinkle upon the thought of empty canvases and scattered brushes. Comparable interests eases conversations and there’s coiled stress unwinds from his mind when he speaks his thoughts. Again, distractions sweep him away and soon enough, he’s matching addresses to doors with his finger finding its way to the door bell.

He hears the ring of the chimes and faint footsteps that follow a voiced reply. Yifan recognises his voice, and recalls past conversations. Their last meeting dates back to months ago and accompanied by mugs of thick coffee and ardent exchanges of ideas. They’re a good combination when they talk, and he enjoys the pleasant company of a amiable listener and acquaintance. Opinions are shared through occasional texts, and familiarity strengthened through arts and designs.

(` upon call, he gathers his attention to the pen in her hands and confirms the empty slot between the wired binding of his book. ) Thank you, miss. (` smiling, he finally trains his eyes upon the other's and nudges the notepad forwards with thankfulness painting his expression. with his single hand occupied and no vacancy, he skims his gaze over the cylindrical slot of the wire. ) Would you mind just sliding it in here? 

❝You don’t. That’s how you do it.❞ He puts the other slice of bread, finally finishing making his sandwich and turning to face the man, expression blank. He means it. Ivon thinks that everyone who decides to step over the boundaries two acquaintances have and try to be friends should get a warning to know exactly what they’re getting into. It’s never set in stone one of them won’t end dead by the other’s hand. At least in their last moment, he doesn’t want them to be completely surprised by it, to get some kind of piece and understand that they ignored the signs thrown at them more or less.

The day has been bad as it is, how can she not think of anything otherwise when the minute she woke up from a nightmare determined the flow of what her day has yet to come. It had been like this for quite some time, all her contained emotions would always sum up by the end of the day to give her the worst nightmare she had ever had, not to mention that she needed to actually place herself in a comforting zone, in which she should compose herself to stand and walk as if nothing happened but today is—different.

University fair took most of her energy, not to mention that she has to run around the whole campus to give food to those professors who were by the end of the building, some are loitering around and she have yet to find them. It was one of the most treacherous thing she did over her lifetime—even when she knows too well that she doesn’t go out that much whenever she wants to. Nonetheless, there she is after the said fair, walking out of the campus grounds with her bag behind her and her peers running, scurrying over their respective cars and services but there she is, as she walks out of the gates, quickly running to the bus shed as she tries not to get drenched by the sudden pour of rain.

"Ah, can this day be any worse?" she clicks her tongue in annoyance, her jacket is now drenched and there’s nothing more that she hates other than this, being drenched and being cold in general—the winter isn’t something that she hates yet the cold weather is something very dreadful, especially when she can’t seem to find that warmth she’s longing for.

          “It’s just rain.” a low voice murmur next to her, making her jerk back from her reverie, she won’t complain nor retort on his statement because he’s right. It’s just rain, as if the sky is actually pitying her with all the things that happened to her; she likes rain, she really does, because it’s calming and the sound is solemn, but when she’s having a bad day like this, there’s nothing that she would rather be in but in her bed to sleep the day off. She may have seem to be annoying for him and she couldn’t seem to want to disagree with what he thinks, she had become whiny for the past few days and she can’t seem to emit it off her system and therefore, all she could do is to sigh; a palm is pressed against her forehead while nodding her head as she contemplates on what to do or what to say, she turns to him, lips curling a little as she runs her fingers through her hair.

"I’m sorry. I was just having a bad day and then it rained and I got drenched—ah." she stops herself with a sigh slipping past her pair of lips, her fingers pressed along the contour of her face, specifically on her temple as she turns to him to mutter another apology. "Sorry, sir."

The emptiness of his hand feels unfamiliar, and he clenches his fists only in attempt to excuse the urge for his fingers to curl around a brush of sorts. To say he loves art would be an overstatement, because he doesn’t. Frankly, he doesn’t appreciate any minutes of the long hours spent staring at slabs of colour or otherwise, the shortage of colour on a dry piece without life. Passion isn’t something he enjoys. The wooden stools are too low for him, and the solid surface shouts discomfort even after decades.

But old habits die hard. Yifan gathers that every pair of trousers will be stained with smears of patent colours and paint peels from his fingers like ripping and writhed skin. The grey whitewash shares an uncanny resemblance to the canvases that he remembers stacking near the east side of the windows. To capture a single frame, and dissimilar to photography, Yifan is only there to witness a split moment. There’s only one chance. These damned habits are why his steps are beyond languid, because only attentive eyes can be charmed. Lousiness deserves nil. Distractions are good riddance of the irksome itches to archive this instant and he remembers the bleached canvas set upon his easel. Yifan’s steps quicken. The streets are vacant, adjacent paths and intersections ringing of tranquility. The air cools with the thick clouds that rolls in, and with the disappearing sun distancing far off behind veils of white. The forecast registered rain-turned light showers, and he purposely forgets the umbrella hooked behind closed doors.

The breeze feels a little colder when it skims past his cheek, so he clutches the right shoulder of his coat closer. It’s unthought of, that the inconvenience of a missing right arm occurs most during days of common draught. The struggles started off absolute, and always become more difficult when he’s concentrated on grasping his coat between his fingers. The clothing manages to drape smoothly over his frame and he eventually turns the corner, steering away and behind the defence of larger structures.

Quiet rumbles follow the rolling clouds and the initial droplets of rain begin to layer the paths with specks of dark grey. His pace is timely and the abrupt arrival of the weather change misses its chance to draw any means of effect upon Yifan. Halting under the only shelter of the nearest bus stop, Yifan cracks a smile at the scent of dry earth mingling with the rain. Deep Fuchsia. Ivory Black. Phthalo Green. Titanium White. Yifan recognises palettes of mixed tones behind closed eyes, and instinctively, he sees the scenery before him as a still frame tinted with his ideal overlay of grey. 36x48 canvas. Vertical. The painting will smell of the identical scent that’s tickling his nose with the rainfall. A picture not worth a thousand words, but worthy of the written poetry scripted in the corner. Yifan finds the rain intriguing, because everything looks motionless and appealing under its filter. It’s just rain, though—

“It’s just rain.” His thoughts are spoken out loud, only because he’s fairly fascinated and not because he’d taken notice of the figure beside him. He was aware, someone caught by the rain; without an umbrella; lots of complaints, and he’d naturally disregarded all that’s unattached to his thoughts. A young lady, perhaps around her early twenties, with evident dissatisfaction visible with her expressions. She speaks, and it alerts Yifan of her existence again. It’s an apology this time, directed to him —he doesn’t recall conversation with her so she must be mistaken, albeit he doesn’t correct her. Superficial or not, charms are strict laws to abide by.

“Fine. It’s fine,” he responds, and finally angles his head to glance at her. “Tough days can occur.”

"Talk of what?" Celty faced the other with a blank expression, her doe eyes blinking at him, "As long as you know what your intentions are, it doesn’t matter what other people say."

You make the rules, because imperfection is not a death sentence. You make the rules, because the mind only fears power and strict law. You make the rules, because you’re stubborn and delinquency calls for a vicious mentor. Explanations are an admission of failure.

You are the rules, because what’s in your hand belongs to you.

Your strokes construct beauty, the perfection that you were once not. It’s a fiery landscape, stage dusking into a graceful cease of sunset. You paint silhouettes with flicks of your wrist, and your fingers draw over dry vivid colours veiled by a layer of hazed grey.

Tones are drawn alive in your grasp.

You tally another fleeting cycle of time. You hear laughter echoing through cavities of your mind.

                              ❝ Ladies and Gentleman! ❞      

You're confident, lips curled into the perfect smile that's competes with the glamorous spotlight circling your figure. Stable stance, and steady voice, the makeup beneath your eyes is fresh.Your stage presence is flawless, decades don't just go to waste.

                                        ❝ My name is Joker! Pleased to meet you.❞

The audience is always a blur of black, but deafening roars only feed the throbbing anticipation that heightens. Forty-five degrees. No faults. Introduce yourself. A schedule, a routine, nothing ever steers out of your control. Nothing will.

        ❝ It's an exciting night ahead, enjoy it, shall we?❞

Everything you do is no longer practised and memorised. Time forms habits, and habits die hard. Your arm feels a little lighter today, the prosthetic winds smooth with your movements. The cheers are reverberating in the closed structure, and a chuckle falls from your lips. The lighting brightens with a snap of your fingers.

                                                                       ❝ Welcome .. to dreamland!❞