the beautiful and the profound {joshler}

Eleutheromania

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(n.) an intense and irresistible desire for freedom.
This sad boy was different, he was soft. The painting he sat in front of wasn't sad and that's what made Tyler so curious.
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He was crying. Legs pulled tight to his chest so he could rest his head on his exposed knees. He sobbed softly, as though in a soundproof bubble and Tyler's heart ached. He blinked at the click of his camera, something in him felt wrong for taking a photo but it was what he had come to do, to find raw emotion in response to art.

To watch the most human experiences with a backdrop of art that imitated them.

But this boy was different, he was soft. Soft brown curls, soft chubby fingers, soft grey sweater that pooled at his hips and wrapped tightly around his fists, soft sobs. Soft.

The painting he was sat in front of wasn't sad, and that's what made him so curious about the boy, why he would come straight over to that painting, eyes already dripping tears and sit in front of it staring at it with blank eyes until he curled in on himself like a wounded animal.

Mark furrowed his brow beside him. "This kid coulda picked any other painting." He said under his breath and then looked to Tyler, studying the way he was watching him, knowing.

"People hurt for lots of reasons." Tyler replied finally tearing his eyes away and stepping into the next room to find someone else to photograph.

Mark's own gaze lingered on the sad boy before fiddling with a camera lens and following his friend.

The boy came back the next day, he sat in front of the same painting, his eyes glazed over as though looking straight through it. Tyler stopped dead in his tracks as he entered the room and saw him.

He was in the same ripped knee jeans and docks as always but this time he had a baby blue hoodie the sleeves pulled over his hands again.

He sat so still he could be mistaken for another exhibit, another piece of the art and Tyler couldn't stop himself from taking another photo.

A photo he found himself looking back over at eleven pm that night. He'd gone straight to it in his gallery when he'd copied his camera's SD card to his laptop. He zoomed in on it, letting out an interested hum when he saw the tiny glint of a silver nose ring, taking in the soft freckles he uncovered with a bit of fiddling on Photoshop.

Tyler's heart skipped when he was there again. His eyes less glassy, same jeans, same docks, a soft pink hoodie this time, it made Tyler look down and his own mustard yellow one that he was wearing and wrinkle his nose.

The boy seemed to be talking to himself, occasionally looking down at his lap as he fiddled with his sleeve and Tyler didn't take a photo this time, instead he lingered nearby hoping to overhear something to know if the soft boy also had a soft voice. He took a picture of a couple kissing in front of a piece called "two lovers" as he moved to sit on the corner of the bench.

Facing the opposite wall to the picture, but the boy had stopped mumbling. Tyler felt his whole body shake as he considered turning to the sad soft boy when someone else sat next to him. Tyler listened in then pretending to look at the art around him.

"Come home." The older woman pleaded and the soft boy took a shuddering breath.

He shook his head, "I can't". His voice was a deep hum, raw and broken and Tyler's heart skipped.

The boy wasn't there the next day or the day after and Tyler wondered if he'd imagined him, but the photos didn't lie.

He worried for him and he thought about him and he held his breath every time he walked into the room with the painting as though he might appear but he didn't.