(no subject)
Jude has always been fond of beaches, not necessarily of the water but the edges of it, and Tabula Rasa is certainly good for finding them; long walks along the streams, afternoons sketching fellow visitors to the waterfall, human and otherwise (old crayons don't do the tropical birds justice, but he makes do). Still, it's the beach he prefers, a reminder of home for all that it looks and feels nothing like it. The difference the sun can make, warmth on his skin and warmth in everything he sees, brighter colors, brighter water. Else he could stare out across the water and just forget.
Tipping his face back, he closes his eyes and focuses on his other senses a moment, the ones he doesn't pay so much mind to when there's paper and charcoal in his hands: The sun is just over the edge of too-warm on his skin, the sand offering little comfort against it; the air smells so fucking good, after Liverpool, after New York. It's fresh and clean, spiced by flora and salted by the sea. Sometimes he forgets his time on it, the passage being no more than a means to an end at the time, but he can't be the first on the island to wish a ship would pull up, offer them a way off.
Not that he's eager to leave, it just rankles not to have the option. To know that there's no ship to jump when he wants to escape.
What there is, is miles and miles of beach stretched out on either side of him, and a few pages left in this sketching pad, and you don't grow up working-class in Liverpool without learning to make do. Jude turns away from the waves, no interest in drawing the seascapes he so enjoys, and starts penciling in the stark, twisting lines of a dead tree.
[Jude 2.0's first EP. Find him on the western coast sketching the shit out of some driftwood, all pups welcome.]
Tipping his face back, he closes his eyes and focuses on his other senses a moment, the ones he doesn't pay so much mind to when there's paper and charcoal in his hands: The sun is just over the edge of too-warm on his skin, the sand offering little comfort against it; the air smells so fucking good, after Liverpool, after New York. It's fresh and clean, spiced by flora and salted by the sea. Sometimes he forgets his time on it, the passage being no more than a means to an end at the time, but he can't be the first on the island to wish a ship would pull up, offer them a way off.
Not that he's eager to leave, it just rankles not to have the option. To know that there's no ship to jump when he wants to escape.
What there is, is miles and miles of beach stretched out on either side of him, and a few pages left in this sketching pad, and you don't grow up working-class in Liverpool without learning to make do. Jude turns away from the waves, no interest in drawing the seascapes he so enjoys, and starts penciling in the stark, twisting lines of a dead tree.
[Jude 2.0's first EP. Find him on the western coast sketching the shit out of some driftwood, all pups welcome.]