You see him, just a boy. He stands shyly, cautiously. His legs are swaying, uncertain of the solidity of the ground beneath him. His fingers move busily at his side, his short nails picking sores on the sides of his fingers. His rosy lips are victims of his teeth, blood rushing at the surface. Here he is, a message of anxiety. His round eyes are a deep, dark blue, darting across the room and bouncing off the walls nervously. His nose is placed in the middle of his face, modestly sized and molded nicely to fit with the rest of his features. The nose balances on its bridge a black pair of glasses, large and round. A horizontal line cuts through each lens, creating bifocals for the blue eyes that look so deceptively clear but, in reality, see only blurred images. His dark blond hair captures the sunlight as it pours off of his head, soft and shiny, nearly liquid. His cheeks are full and pink, like a child's. His clothes are dark and layered, hiding most of his body. When feeling insecure or shy, he shrinks into his large grey hoodie like a turtle retreats into its shell. He is slim and small, so the extra large hoodie hangs off his shoulders, rolling down like water. He thrives off of isolation and can easily be found pressed against a wall or in an empty, quiet room. When his eyes are met with another's, he will offer a small smile and his cheeks will flush, and he will quickly look away. Often, he can be seen with a laptop or a notebook, typing or writing or drawing. He loves to paint. On Saturday mornings, coffee nearby and paintbrush in hand, he gracefully glides watercolours across his canvas, focusing his gaze as the colours bleed into each other, light glistening off the surface. When not painting, drawing, or writing, he loves to bake. His hands are small and soft, perfect for kneading dough in the late afternoon. As bread rises in the oven, the smell wafts through the house and fills him with a serene peace. It is in these simple moments that he feels most at home, wherever he is.
Deep breath in, deep breath out. In his mind, words and images float, bumping into each other and moving along, always moving. He is made of quiet mornings, warm afternoon suns, and midnight meditations. His eyes, seeming always distant, see a painting, a beautiful story, in everything that they gaze upon. His delicate ears hear faint, subtle music, dizzy notes dancing through the air when others hear only silence. Words and phrases drift sleepily through his mind. He is made of every quiet, solitary movement; he is an image of fluidity and art.
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