10A/N: This a story that I originally posted on Mibba, inspired by five random pictures. Comments and constructive criticism would be greatly appreciated.
I could still feel his warm presence against me after his peculiar four day absence. He wasn't the type to leave me unexpectedly, but I trusted that he had his reasons for such unspoken wandering. He had always been something of a free spirit, and I didn't mind too much, because he always came back to me.
And tonight was no different.
He appeared through the back door that I had left open for him, despite the downpour outside. He sauntered over to me with a carefree grin, and perched himself in my lap without a word. He knew I wouldn't object, even though he was soaking wet. I laughed softly.
"Where have you been?" I murmured, pressing my lips to his hair. "I missed you."
He didn't reply, but I hadn't expected him to. I gently caressed his body, and he nuzzled his face into my chest. His appreciative purrs kept a rhythm all their own, rivaling my musical heartbeat. I could feel him clawing at my collarbone as he stretched to reach my earring, hoping to nibble on it. Like many, he had a predictable love for shiny things.
"Ah, Arthur… You are so bad," I whispered, picking him up and setting him on the floor. "You know my ears are ticklish."
He meowed loudly in disappointment.
"Don't be like that," I sighed. "Remember the last time you played with my earring? You nearly ripped it out! And I couldn't even express my horror, because I was keeled over in laughter!"
He meowed again, apologetic this time, before going off on his own.
I smiled, watching my kitty walk away. He was easily the only true companion I had in my life. My parents and siblings were only a state away, but our relationship was strained, at best. I had dropped out of law school to do what I enjoyed, and for that, they shunned me. All of them had been through a traditional, rigorous education, and were very successful because of it.
Despite that everything they had warned me of had come true, like the money problems and the solitude, I didn't care. I loved what I did. I loved to paint, and I loved to write. Sitting in front of an easel, painting the contents of dreams and delusions, fairytales and fantasies, with a wondrous palette of color—that was my life. And then going back to my mechanical typewriter to punch out a snippet of words conveying something angry, something full of love, something inspirational—that was all I needed.
It didn't bother me that my little books didn't produce enough money to support an excessive lifestyle. What I did came from the heart, and although I earned further ridicule from my family for self-publishing, I simply couldn't take my work seriously if part of its creation was handed off to someone other than me.
I only hoped that the few who did pick up my books truly enjoyed themselves, and recognized, however subconsciously, how much love and effort I put into my work. But alas, I knew that it was more likely for someone to pick up one of my books and toss it aside like trash, though I tried not to let myself get too caught up in the negative possibilities linked to my career.
Making collections of my writing—my innermost thoughts and ideals—along with watercolor illustrations, was what I did for a living, and I needed to respect that. I had to give myself some credit for my choice.
I could have been rich and disdainful, but I had chosen the life of essence and passion over that of luxury.