"So you are painting is it?" she asked amused to see him all colorful in an old overall.. his painting uniform..

The colors already mixed.. brush in hand he was staring into nothingness. She didn't expect him to reply. He didn't reply always.. but he would few minutes later after he has finished thinking whatever he was... thinking... He listened to everything... and continued like there is no break... It always disconcerted strangers.. but she was used to it...

She sat there quietly. Somehow being with him was like being alone.. and yet not.. he inspired inner peace somehow.. and made her look within.. she liked it.. liked him a lot..

"I woke up and just couldn't help it.. its not a pleasure... its a compulsion" he muttered between his teeth.

She didn't reply.. this is not new.. he always reacted as if its not him but someone else compelling him to draw and it draws his blood... in a way it was true too she mused..

"So who is your muse this time?" she asked tentatively. Sometimes he exploded when she asked him that.. and at other times he was more than eager to share... unpredictable.. May be thats the reason why his paintings are so violent... the riots of colors.. somehow made her choke... it was beautiful alive... and yet it was cruel.. and devastating.. it was not cold though.. it was hot.. like anger.....

Suddenly she looked at him.. her eyes reflecting all she felt.. and she could see the understanding in his eyes. He knew she understood... understood why he hated to paint and yet why he couldn't stop.. it wasn't him.. and yet it was him... he smiled at her... and then said "Vivid"

"What ? I didn't ask how it will be.. I asked who the muse is..."

He again said "Vivid" and smiled absentmindedly...

She was irritated now.. "Why don't you tell me you don't wanna tell?"

"But I did!" he said... then he had that distant look in his eyes.. she knew he is lost again.. in that secret world..where she can't reach him.. but she would wait for him...

She was content to wait.. In this small world of theirs time stopped.. when he painted, everything stopped for her.. her worries.. her past ceased to exist and in this temporary fugue.. this mirage she bloomed.. she lived... aware of everything... He had shown her that... the sound of silence... the secret world that goes unnoticed.. the world of tree fairies and elves ..

"Who the hell is Vivid?" She asked no one... she knew all his friends.. even the imaginary ones... he told her everything sooner or later.. or so she thought.. miffed she looked at him in askance...

Knowing that its futile to expect things from him.. that he cannot offer.. she decided to take up her knitting..

When he first asked her to try it with new patterns she laughed at it.. 'I am not creative honey.. I am a monkey.. I imitate well' she had said.. but due to his persistence she had taken it and seemed like she found her own sky to fly in...

Sometimes she herself was amazed by how her fingers brought images to life.. images she didn't even know existed in her mind.. its as if the fingers had life of their own.. is this what he referred to ?