A crowd, of strangers, and a sketch board blank. He stared at the distant crowd, and the colorful balloons fluttering away in the vicinity.
With hopeful mist in his eyes, he sat at a distance tugging away at the idea of the experience. He would smile away effortlessly at the merry bunch of children that passed by, without letting his engaging efforts at camouflaging his emotions slip by. He would marvel at the sudden dispatch of hot air and the rising heights of the wooden basket within. His brush strokes sudden and peaceful relentlessly kept darkening the sides of the silhouette. He kept painting the colors with utmost precision, yet the balloon's subtle movements under the caressing winds went un-captured.
The tiny splashes of paint across his face approved of his dedication. Yet the source of his inspiration - hidden within his complacency.
His sincere optimism was visible in his alternate glances to the balloon, surrounded by a self-infested longing. He would wait for that miracle, for as long as it takes, yet the wait wasn't making him weary. His inability to experience it, was motivation enough for another glaring attempt at immortalizing the picture in front of him. The brush strokes kept growing prominent and darker, yet the dispersing crowd kept alienating his experience.
And with that last balloon, slipping out of his sight, he lent his hand out to his beloved, leaning onto her affectionate embrace, grabbed his crutches, and limped away.
- Written for the "Short Story Slam" @ bluebellbooks.