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Where {his} heart lies [Lancelot]
Nov 21, 2016 21:13:19 GMT -5
Post by Kingston Cesaire D3A [Tom] on Nov 21, 2016 21:13:19 GMT -5
Writing Thinking Hearing Saying
They never listen to him. His words ripple upon a pond of their ignorance as his words are never heard. "Dear. He doesn't leave that awful paint filled room. He needs to go outside and meet someone. Even if he's a shitty son, he should still learn why he has it good in this home and he should learn to behave and how act like a normal person." Enough was enough for Muse. Their words hit him with every piece of glass that they had shattered within his chest. The aching pain that never disappears pulls at his organs. Exposing his sorrows to the world that outshines him with it's disease of happiness.
The sun gleams down upon his skin, exposing the tan skin to the world. Exposed to the common people who he hid from for no reason at all. The pond that had been ignorance forms onto himself, an example of the beauty that he ignores from inside the mansion of a home that his grandfather had given his parents. The clouds, a fluffy white that reminds him if the cotton pillows that he would be resting upon if he had gotten his way. The notebook, filled with sketches of the scenes he could find, the only belonging that he had escaped with. A writing utensil within his jean pocket, resting calmly against his thigh.
The cool breeze tickles his skin softly, a gentle caress of the weather that cools him calmly. The jacket around his form, warm and protecting him like a shield from the breeze. As his feet move within beat of his own small hum, his hands fumble with the sketchbook within his hands. A calming habit of his own making, thumb rubbing against the binding to soothe his tired soul. As he walks, faces of the unknown and lost pass by him, their emotions fake and the smiles ever so haunting to him. If only Muse Stratos could find his own joy, his own happy end. There wasn't anything left for him, only a broken family and art that hangs from the walls. His heart shown to the entire home. Emotions painted upon canvas hung up to be shown to his parents, a clue to Muse's insides.
His spot. A cement bench, nowhere near the giant populated district square where he can watch the sun continue glowing down upon the earth. Winds blowing across the district knocking up leaves with a gentle push. The spot was relaxing and quiet compared to the noise of the residents who can't shut up for five seconds, just like his parents. The noise was both beautiful and ugly, a sound that drowns out the world that sits around them. They all couldn't see the beauty of silence like he could, but he can see the beauty of the noise. At first, he didn't notice the attractive male down the road. The fates of the world scream for him to look, but he can't, not when he's absorbed in the noise of the district.
He didn't notice him, not until the wind hit his cheek, shielding his eyes from the original direction he was looking. As he turns his head, all he can see is the man. Brown hair slightly blowing within the wind. His striking features burn Muse's cheeks pink for only a second. The body on the man makes him want to see every piece he can of it, but his lips stay shut. Muse Stratos wasn't the guy to go up to someone and speak. The striking eyes stare, not at Muse, but at something else that Muse can't figure out. Everything about the man struck him as beautiful. A well deserved piece of art, carved from the marble by a god that once lived in their world.
All he could do was pull out the sketchbook, his hand slowly pulling out the utensil in his pocket. His hand moves slowly as his eyes take in the beauty of a man down the road. The wind caressing Muse's cheek, teasing him. Beauty fills the page slowly and the form of a man appear upon the white paper. Muse's soul pushes the pen and his eyes absorbs the sight of the gorgeous boy across from him. Beauty was everywhere, but in that moment, the only beauty he could see was the man who blinded him from the rest of the world. His heart urns to know him, but his mind tells him not to. The world was a cruel place, Muse knew this. His mother and father were examples of the cruelty that poisons the world, but this man. This man was a gift by the gods who once lived there. As his hand draws the man, his eyes explores him. Nervousness in his veins, but his heart pulls as the image becomes clearer on his sketchbook. This was beauty. A man made from the word attractive. An artist with a broken soul. A world that is learning of what beauty is. This was where his heart wants to be, but can't. As it lays with his art in the book and on the walls.
