Chapter 2: Colours, Love, Fanatics and the Price of Dreams

The fresh air, while not bringing any imagination to James, was quite refreshing, and helped in clearing his scattered and messy brain. The green of the weeds, the blue of the sky, the white of the clouds, and the black of the shadows all created a vivid image of a fairyland in James' head. His most famous characters' journey was situated in a fairyland, all rainbows and cerulean and pinks, all unicorns and talking beasts and huge griffins. The parallel of the two contrasting worlds was destroyed by the urban blots that were the buildings around him. Every colour did nothing to better the bleak grey of the metropolitan city around him.

James left the wandering of his brain at his front door, and began walking down the metal staircase connecting Arthur's apartment on the third floor and the brown ground. Along the staircase, near the juncture for the first floor stood Kate, looking out on the far horizon. She was dressed in a suit and tie, as the assistant of the regional manager of a packaging industry. James beckoned her, loudly, even though she was only a feet away, "Oy, Kate!", and the surprised young lady began to reply, "James. A long time since I last saw you outside your man cave." "I thought a bit of air that isn't, you know, composed of Arthur's farts and burps would do me well." Kate reached out and playfully shoved James on his belly, "Yuck, I don't want to know about your boyfriend's gastric activities." "Not my boyfriend, however much you try to ship us. You know, I had a girlfriend once upon a time." "Yeah, I had forgotten about your model of a girlfriend. It's like you never mention her." Kate chuckled at her own joke, "Anyway, where is our flatulent friend." "Uh, most likely at his job, unless he felt a early drink on a Wednesday was a good idea, which, though a remarkably dumb idea, I wouldn't put it past him." "Well, let's hope that our toiling friend does not come back inebriated." James laughed nervously at her joke, but felt himself stare. Kate's brown hair, brown eyes, and fair skin all attracted his attention. He felt his skin redden, and his voice almost felt heavy. Kate's lips continued spewing out more synonyms for being completely drunk, taking pot-shots at Arthur and his quite off putting behaviour. "Anyway, Kate, gotta go. I'll meet you here or there, sooner or later." "Hoping its the sooner option. Your face is so unfortunately absent outside, and your man cave should start feeling more of your absence, seeing how it is hogging your attention. Anyway, farewell, and safe trials on your journeys, oh chivalrous knight!" "Bye, Kate."

Just as that, this remarkably smooth protagonist resumed his walking down the stairs. The warm soil and cool weeds awaited him at the ground, an almost comfortable embrace for the tired and red-faced James. Once he reached the ground, and set his foot on mother earth, he slowly began walking west towards the floral park, which was normally used to walk around its lined, brick paths. The walk was tiring, around a ten minute walk in almost a straight line. The road beside him was bustling with cars, buses, trucks and taxis. Even so, James adhered to his will, and refrained from beckoning and hiring a ride to his destination. James continued walking, and walked, and walked, putting one foot down after another. After a few minutes which felt like a few hours, James saw a man walking in towards him, dressed in a blue fast food server's garb, fussing at removing gloves from his palms, inattentive to his surroundings. The man, possessing a slightly bigger frame than James, walked right into the tired and now annoyed author. Just as that, James learned that the idiot was none other than the flatulent fool whose room James was shacking up in, Arthur. Arthur also noticed James, now that he had just gone and rammed into him. His deep voice made its way out of his mouth, "James, fancy seeing you here, the writing not going well?" "Nah, just needed some air. Anyway, I gotta go. I spent the last nine minutes straining my legs to reach the park, and I think I can't stop now without sitting down." "Brash, but I have things to do too. So, bye. Meet you at the house." "Bye." Saying so, James began to sprint. The park was a few metres away, and its wooden benches would be some paltry respite from his painful tiredness. The park's wood gates seemed a shining beacon in the grey atmosphere, and finally the panting James walked into the glorified garden, sprinting towards the bench. Once he sat down, he felt his breath stop being a burden, but his legs and feet were still sprained, and he felt his muscles tighten, and felt the muscles move with every heartbeat, below the fatty skin of his thigh. He stretched his left leg, and stood up to begin walking. He winced from the reinstated pain, but walked.

James' walk around the park was a short one, doing wonders in clearing his mess of a mind, but bringing no story ideas except the visual image of a thriving environment. He finally walked out of the park, after around five minutes of staying in the park. His first idea was to go and get some takeaway, but he ended up agreeing with his conservative self in getting some instant noodles from the grocery store. He walked to one, calling itself 'General Grocery Gallery', and walked through its glass doors. The inside was white cement walls, with tens of metal shelves all propped up against them. Each shelf was stocked with items, some necessities and some luxuries, each calling and beckoning for James' eyes, each more appealing than the last. James finally reached the instant food section, compelling himself against purchasing any of the more appetizing ingredients. He reached out to pick up a pack of instant noodles, decorated with a flame breathing dragon on its packaging. James had already made a dragon like hero's sidekick and antagonist in his story, so the illustration did not bring any ideas to his idea starved psyche. But another dragon wouldn't be hated by readers, seeing the public adulation his villain of a dragon had received. He guessed the people tended to like anthropomorphic scaly reptilians who had many a sarcastic jest to make. The noodles were one dollar in cost, and James walked to the cashier to pay his due. Once he reached the register, he payed the sum, and him and the female cashier exchanged no words. James walked out the store, to see the light blue heavens turned dark blue, and the lights beside the road and of the countless skyscrapers all switched on, lighting up the darkness with thousands of man-made stars. When every piece of the rotten cover was peeled off, mankind's hand print on the world was almost beautiful. But that were too much rot to be easily peeled off. The pollution of humans was as dark as its zeniths of beauty were bright. And they were bright as hell, and hardly as beautiful as heaven.

James saw an around four and half foot tall boy run towards him, expressing a wide smile directed to the children's author. James interpreted that the tween was gleeful to see him, and then noticed the book below the kid's shoulder. Its dark green colour, which had originally been a reference to the scales of his original dragon, had tipped him off that the book was his own. The boy, once he had sprinted to the writer's feet, spoke through his beaming teeth, "Sir, are you Jane Thompson?" "I believe its James Thomson. And I believe I am." "Could you write your name on my copy of your book?" "Do you mean my autograph?" "Oh, yes. Could you?" "I believe I will." The boy shoved his book into the hands of the litterateur, and stood hyperactively, bobbing up and down, left and right, waiting for his hero to write his name. James was writing his name, when a quite annoyed lady walked to the boy, "William Holland! Where did you run off too?" The lady next glared at James, after reading her son's countenance, "And who in the world are you, sir?" The female grabbed the book in James' hand, before James could finish signing his title. She did not wait for his answer before grabbing her son's wrist and began walking, not giving a sh*t what James had to say. Her sprint was uniform, but as if she was angered. Will reared his head and waved at James, before his mom had completely pulled him away. James tenderly smiled at the boy, but frowned when he turned away from the boy and mother.

The chance encounter and subsequent departure of the boy left a bitter taste in James' mouth, almost as bitter as the taste of a normal life. The previously measly chance that his head would turn clear, was now, completely gone. His head was filled with an unholy fusion of anger, sadness, shame, and pity for the boy, who had such a close-minded matriarch. James' own mother had been rather okay with his goals, supporting him on his journey to stardom, and not saying so if she was sceptical of James becoming successful. His father, on the other hand, was quite vocal on the doubts he housed about James' own chosen life path. Of course, when the news of his father's death by lung cancer had reached the then high pedestaled James, after years of its unholy development, he had shed his tears, and had drowned his sorrow in his crystal glasses, and in some drug or the other. Ironic it was, that James had told his dad to heed his advice, and leave the cigarettes and live a healthy life. His pleas then had fallen on deaf ears, and sooner or later, his own future child's pleas will drop unheard.

This was the circle of life, James gathered from his own experiences, and it was a painful and singularly boring one. Yet its warm and familiar bounds, frequented by most to ever live, were bordered by the cold unknown of, well, the unknown. Yet James had waded out to these unknowns. James had suffered the folly of dreaming.

James had yearned for fame, and might have thought life long devotion was sufficient for the spotlight. But his spotlight had been a sliver, the light passing through a closed door's edges. And when its bright blaze had been unceremoniously snuffed out, all he was were the blackened ashes, the grey soot, that kissed the cold hard floor. That was how his pedestal was burned, how the dream his mother had supported, the dream his father had despised, was confined to the unremarkable dust, with all the other unremarkables' dreams. That was all his fate was, all his destiny was, to be left to the useless majority that had once praised him and looked on as he had succeeded, the carrion crows who had come to feast on his blighted flesh as he fell from his pedestal. Heaven and hell were the same thing on earth, two faraway destinations he could only hope to see sooner or later. The peasants and vultures were exhausting, and the price of just existing was enormous.

The price of unwanted destiny, the price of unrealised daydreams, had been a cruel joke to James.