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Written by: Fox http://aminoapps.com/p/zh85ca
Original post: http://aminoapps.com/p/ljld5zo
♛┈⛧┈┈•༶༶•┈┈⛧┈♛
He'd been here before—way too many times for his young age. Just twenty-six times around the sun, and his spirit was empty again. He ached from the hunger rumbling within.
Ian had been on his own since his father had given him the ultimatum a month after high school graduation. 'Go to university or find your own place.' He'd left home the next day. He and his father had never seen eye-to-eye and further conversation would've been a waste of breath.
When he'd first left home, he'd gone to stay with his friend Nick until he could get his shit together. One of the conditions of living there was that he attend church with the family on Sundays. He hadn't gone to church as a child and although these services had no interpreter for the deaf, the pastor wasn't a screamer and had made great eye contact with his flock. Ian found if he sat up front, he could pick up some words: Jesus, love, forgive. More than anything else, he'd felt the peacefulness and seen the goodwill and acceptance the members had for one another. He'd been a little sorry when the time had come to move on.
Ian never stayed in one place for long. After a few months in a new town the mental pacing would begin. Like a lion in a cage, he'd feel restless and frustrated—needing to move on but not knowing where. Back and forth, hitting the corners and spinning the turns—his thoughts would stalk him. Always starting out hopeful but ending up scanning the horizon for something just out of view. Ian knew when the pacing began it wouldn't be long before he'd be loading up the truck and heading out. The story of his life it seemed—always wanting something that just wasn't there, needing to please, but not knowing how. The bars of his cage were of his own creation, but even knowing that, on some level, they were still real to him. Solidly planted bars fabricated from his own fears, his perceived limitations, and other people's expectations. Bars that held him in, but kept him moving on.
In each small town he'd find a carpentry job that paid the rent, put gas in his truck and food on the table with a little left at the end of the month for art supplies. Painting was Ian's passion. His CEO-suited father hadn't understood that. 'You'll never make a living that way. You want to paint something? Paint the house!'
Ian was deaf—fully deaf from birth. He'd never known sounds and his thoughts were images. Over the years, many hearing people had asked him, "How do you think?" He'd been insulted until he'd realized they were asking if he heard an inner voice in his head the way they did—he did not. ASL was his first language; his thoughts were signs and pictures. He saw details others missed. The images in his mind were filed as though in PhotoWerks and he was able to recall exact visions with amazing accuracy. His unique perspective made it almost inevitable he'd become an artist.
