Alluvion

[Patricus I]

With every brush of color to haunt their surroundings, the shade of Philip’s white attire glowed with neon impressions. As a man of faith dropped into the midst of worldly storms, as much as he was present, he was also set apart, and just as the colors touched him, he was not of their kind. The white of his seemingly athletic attire was subconscious as much as deliberately selected. White, black, red – these were the colors of profound symbolism and Philip was a man of faith even in dreams. As he watched the kaleidoscope of time churn around them, he remained steady in the instability. Nimeda floated among the living walls as if she were more a part of it then even she realized. It was in that moment that Philip truly connected the line of a dream back to a place of reality – and the mercurial nature of it all.

Her question elicited an annoyed reaction, not so much because she asked it, but because it delved straight to the first-hand knowledge of his life’s work. “I help none of them, Nimeda. Ten billion souls walk the earth, and every one of them say they need something: money… fame… rescue… healing… sex..” He looked at her as the list concluded as though judging her reaction to which of those items she coveted most, but it was not for him to grant any desires, least of all to her. He was nothing. He was powerless. He was invisible. When he continued, an expression of great contemplation darkened his expression that it verged on sadness. “The ironic thing is that everyone does need something, but it’s not what they think; nor is it for me to deliver.” He wondered if she may pick apart the riddle. It was life's great question: what does man need most?

Before his curiosity was sated, inspiration struck Nimeda like lightning, and in a wash of light and color, they were yanked through the empty unknown. The apartment that formed was orderly in a way that appealed to him. Her directionality honed with objective destination, and Philip followed on her heels. He wasn’t a tall man except in presence of aura, but she was petite at his side even still; a hovering essence that he was acutely aware crept close. The picture was recent, the caption illuminating. He read out loud with the resonant voice of one accustomed to crowds hanging on his every word. “In a new exhibition, artist Thalia Milton blurs the line between art and reality with delicate sensitivity of the senses. Milton is an artist based in old Arbatskaya of Moscow’s elite district. She is famous for illustrating what she feels not what she sees. She paints a world dressed in ideas that are close to her heart.”

When he looked at her, it was with the scrutiny of this newly revealed shade overlaid upon what he knew of the girl from the river. “It seems you have another name after all,” he said, thinking of his own lack of identity. He wanted to tell her, but the desire was birthed by an ego he vowed to ignore.