Stroked

-Prologue-

 

-Stroked-

-Prologue-




"So, you just had this...dream...about this girl?" Matt asks and straightens up in his chair so he can get a better view and focus on my current piece. A piece that I just can't seem to stray away from. Matt really isn't as skeptical as I thought he'd be.

The words seemed even odder when they are out loud. Matt, however doesn’t seem too fazed by them. He seems like his normal self; annoyingly charming. My brother never really cares who or what his words would affect.

"Yeah..." I mutter while holding a paintbrush in one hand and a black paperclip between my teeth. I try my best to focus on my work. I pretend he is just an annoying noise in the back of my head like noise radiating from a television or a car honking outside my window. I want to finish my work.

"She's, well, kind of hot dude." Matt says and grins like an idiot, the words sounding odd.

When I take a step back I can definitely see what he’s talking about. She’s gorgeous. I mean, she really is, but she still doesn’t seem to have that sort of 'real' quality to her yet.

"Well, for a painting anyways..." He adds shortly after. I nod to his words and try, yet again, to focus.

When I went to bed last night I could still remember feeling sort of...defeated. I haven't painted much in months. It sort of drains my emotions from my body because I love to paint. It's not just a hobby to me; it is so much more. Even though I work in an art shop I want to create my own art. I want to create, not just sell.

However, I have a long time before that ever happens.

There's a special thing you feel when you make or craft a piece of art. It could be a painting of a farmhouse, a glass vase with daisies, a sketch of a sun, anything. When you see someone buying or even liking your art, well, that is truly something special. It's amazing, but my brother doesn't buy my childish thinking. He says it’s a waste of time and more importantly; space. He's just never really had any time for art. 

He's too busy serving drinks and then drinking half of them at local bars. I've already tried pushing the subject of a real job but my brother likes being this way; I don't know why. He's my brother, so only half of what I say really registers anyways.

"I wish I could remember my dreams like you do. I'm sure my dreams are wonderful." He says cheerily and I can’t help but laugh.

"Your dreams are probably horrifying if alcohol has anything to do with them." I reply and he widens his eyes like he's been offended, but he does this playfully.

"You're probably right, but aren't you always?" He says and gets up from the chair and makes his way over to the connected living room of the house.

It's completed by a leather couch, a wooden coffee table, and a boxed television set. He plops down on the couch and puts up his booted feat on the end of it.