“Storms are my forte,” the red-lipped stranger said, her blue ember eyes glowing softly in the misty gloom. A tendril of smoke curled elegantly from her opened palm—a whisper of fire, and roses. “Diamonds and sapphires raining across the open sky . . .”

“Hmm . . . Lightning and thunder are beautiful too,” she continued, stroking her ebon hair darker than night, that glimmered with the touches of starlight. “Blue and silver streaks across an indigo sky with rain,” she purred. Her voice was melodious, like the ocean by twilight, like a breeze playing upon cathedral bells.

“But I do like firestorms too. Topaz and red, like ruby bolts of silk . . .”

“But firestorms destroy,” I pointed out.

“The phoenix does not die,” she replied in turn, amused with my input. Her eyes crinkled, as if to say, you silly creature. “He remains himself through that dance of flame.”

“Does it hurt?” I asked.

“It may,” she said with a tilt of her head. “But only if you let it.”

“Then I won’t,” I said with determination.

She smiled. “You’re perfect!” she said with a pleased nod. “I’ll teach you to dance with fire!”

“What of water?” I inquired.

“You’re too eager,” she said. “One thing at a time. Soon, you’ll learn it all. And you’ll protect lives, and become a warrior. Not that you aren’t one already,” she added fondly. Already, she seemed to like me. I was proud to have her approval.

“Now, guard that warrior’s heart until I come back, alright?” she said, rising from her chair. Outside, the winds howled, and the thunderstorm went on, drumming its rhythm upon the windowpanes.

“I will,” I promised with a determined nod.

She proffered me a kind smile. “I shall return soon. Sleep well.”

Again, I nodded, my eyes already closing. “Good night, madam.”

I did not see her leave, but I was smiling contentedly in my slumber. I did not see her cast a longing smile, her eyes aglow with love as she opened the door and vanished into the rain.

It's been almost a year since my last journal entry . . .

Well, I'm still around, still creating pieces to capture my flights of fancy. I'm quite happy with the way my style has been changing and evolving, and I hope to see myself still improving in the future.

I can't wait to see what dreams will weave themselves into art.

I find that I miss the old art I used to create.

My style has both changed and remained unchanged; however, much of it has transformed into something new entirely. My works were once of the sepia of old, forgotten photographs and of the night; now, they are fantastical prisms of light and song.

That is not a bad thing, of course; life for me has burst into full color, which manifests itself in the art I now create.

However, I am slightly afraid that perhaps I cannot create the art that I used to anymore.

(Truth be told, I miss the layers of antedeluvian dust and decay that was once my work.)

I am only slightly afraid, though--for once something is within you, it shall always be there, ready to awake with a whispered beckon or with the inundation of thought and feeling.

Still, the fear is there.

For now, even as I know the light, I wish to recall the part of me that is dark--for without it, my art would never have been born in the first place.

Light and dark--two halves of me.

As of now, the brightness and gleaming glory of light fill my eyes.

But sometime--sometime hopefully very soon--I will visit the night once again, and the garden of earthly delights that once found me there.

Wish me luck.

Well, it's been a while since I last visited DA, and what a surprise I was in for!

The new layout and feel of DA came as a pleasant surprise, and I must say . . . it makes me feel like creating digital art again.

I believe that it's been months since my last visit, due to the overwhelming amount of work I've had to accomplish. However, nothing can tear one away from what is truly his or her passion, and no matter how swamped I am, I do constantly find myself thinking of what it would be like to once again be inspired to create digital art--and to write prose, for that matter, which I also haven't seriously done in quite some time.

Well, hopefully I can create some new prosaic and artistic pieces soon. I have some ideas brewing in my head already--hopefully they can come to life. Here's to the dawn of inspiration. Cheers.

Gazing at a mauve horizon, where the clouds boil of dreams and decay, there in the distance awaits a silver shore; the sands are broken slivers of my nights, and the unmoving waves are the frosted remnants of my dusks; and the wilting vespertine nightshade that I am, I dance in the acrid wind that steals my life even as I breathe in its fragrant poison; forever leaping in bolts of damask cloth and gossamer scarves of the palest blue and the most delicate cream; hints of sandalwood incense tickling my senses; I am your belladonna, and I dance only for you; leaping from the belfry of my thoughts and into the crystalline light that shatters in my grasp; the rain comes, weeping the remnants of what was once light and beauty; pieces of my phantasms blooming in your palms; open-mouthed and gasping for life; pretty phrases and drooping dreams, pursing lips and gleaming eyes; curling hands and swaying flesh; flowing silk and tinkling bells; softest psalms and thundering descants; quatrains with no count, and sonnets with no rhyme; you; me; them; he; she; mine; yours; all yours; I.