impulsive
Impulsive. That was one way to describe him. Who, you might ask? The figure that was currently splayed out on the floor, brushes and opened cans of glacier white wall paint surrounding him. While resembling a starfish with his limbs all spread out in different directions, Lucas might have seemed ridiculous, but his loud snores were equivalent to the energy he had just spent. On what exactly? On impulse. Nine o'clock at night had always been a time of boredom for him, and today was no exception. So, when Lucas found himself perched on a ladder, trying to cover every square centimeter of his high walls and ceiling with a muted shade of white, he wasn't at all surprised.
He acted on impulse, and today that had been to shift the few pieces of furniture he had to the center of his studio flat and paint the walls. Covering up the previous wash of light blue with an even coat of the new color took him much longer than anticipated. By the time he was finished, putting the furniture back in its rightful place didn't cross his drained mind. He'd rather just sleep. And so he did. With a blanket and an open window he slept, dreamt of gloomy skies the color of his walls.
The next morning he awoke, shaking. With a tiny frown creasing his brow, he sat up, his frame rattling with a sudden bout of shivers. Hopefully he wouldn't get sick. Sleeping with the window wide open in late October wasn't something he usually did. On the other hand, getting high on paint fumes wasn't at the top of his bucket list either, so he'd just have to suck it up and wait for his tiny home to warm back up. In the meantime, he threw on another sweatshirt, which was cold as well, just like everything else in the room.
Lucas made his way over to the window, getting it closed being the only thing on his mind, when suddenly, his socks were wet. That confused him greatly. One's sleep-clouded mind does not simply have the competence to comprehend a change that abrupt. Taking a glance out the window helped; the streets were also wet. It must have been raining. Open windows mean wet parquet, which in turn means wet socks. That alone woke him up some more, what an unpleasant thing.
Half an hour later, he was stepping out of his apartment building, adjusting the backpack on his shoulders, cautiously stepping over a puddle, the only evidence of last night's rain. With paint stained hands, still wearing his clothes from the day before, he headed in the direction of his friend's house. He wanted to paint his walls too. Another impulse.