It was an induced delirium, lithe fingers holding the pencil with poise, with purpose. each solitary stroke delineated that which he knew, the sharp jawline, the austerity of his gaze, lips eternally set to a line. It felt familiar, yet his arsenal is a traitor, there is something innately wrong with the portrait as its eyes bore into him. kaveh forsakes the pencil, sketchbook splayed upon upon his lap, knees drawn almost to his chest. his index finger traces the visage of his classmate, of someone whose presence inundated his days with its proximity.
what was wrong with it ? frustration seething within him, in a movement of haste heās torn the page from the metal rings, tearing it in half - and then in half again ;Ā again and again until the scraps of paper flutter in their descent. he didn't know this feeling, couldnāt begin to fathom what the dull ache that's birthplace was his ribs meant.
With an indignant huff he drew his thighs flush to his chest, resting his chin atop his knees. this wasnāt like him. art was always done with the intent to be liberating, to express oneās utmost desires - so why were his chambers littered with the remnants of several crumpled and torn portraits. He found the manās visage truly infuriating - to be so enthralled with it ? to the point where his pencil moved of its own accord; it was absurd. Ā āĀ i just .. donāt want to draw him anymore.āĀ he said softly, almost to himself - as if he thought, for a moment, he could free himself of those invisible fetters with such a piteous behest.