I look at him and get the same feeling you get when you look at artwork.
The yearning you feel to glide your fingers across the panels, to feel the stroke of the brush.The aching feeling inside you that make you want to feel the texture of the masterpiece. You want to hold it close to your beating heart, wishing that all the emotions of the artist will come flooding into you somehow, as if each thought will come pouring in; perhaps they’ll even seep into your bones and stay right within you.
You just need to touch it.
But at the same time there is the fear.
The lingering feeling that bothers you. The fear that your touch will harm the intricate design. You’ll taint the masterpiece because thats all you ever do. Destruction is all you’ve ever known. Your life is a mess and you loathe it too much to bestow it upon anyone else. The fear binds you, never truly letting you do anything fully.
So you admire the art from afar, never gathering enough courage to near it, ignoring the ache that builds inside of you.
You foolishly convince your heart, believing that you were lucky enough to have at least seen it, content with the fact that even being in the same vicinity as the artwork as an achievement in itself .