There were probably better things to do on a night like this. Most of his friends thought that way, he knew. They were all out and about, partying the evening away, and if he was being totally honest with himself, he wanted to be with them. Drinking, hanging out, watching other people do crazy things and forget about his troubles for a while. But a part of him was aware that no matter what he did tonight, wherever he went to try to let his trouble subside for one evening, that they'd just be back in the morning. Some people thought he was too serious, too focused on his work, or just didn't know how to relax. But to Thomas Weitz, what was relaxing to him wasn't relaxing for others.
He was an artist. Maybe one who hadn't had a single piece of work that he'd been compensated for (unless you counted his partial scholarship), and maybe one who hadn't been able to get his art displayed anywhere where people actually paid for it yet. But to him, being an artist was just a state of mind. And as he continued to click through images, taking his time doing so, he couldn't find what he was looking for. Something that stirred him, something that challenged him, that drove him to greater heights and made him want to push his work farther. A few canvasses hung on his wall, and he shook his head at them again in disappointment; they were unfinished, and Tom was pretty sure they'd stay that way.
Eventually, he was pretty sure he had stopped looking for inspiration and had just begun looking for images that interested him, which was a different thing entirely; being interesting to him didn't mean it'd help him draw. A ten headed koala was interesting but Tom had no fucking interest in making something based off of that. Without even knowing it, his picture surfing became checking forum threads, which soon became him checking facebook and liking random statuses on it, without him knowing it.
Damn it. He clicked off the screen, grateful at that moment that he had his own dorm room. He paid a bit of a premium for it, but it was money he had; rich parents were to thank for that, ones who had supported his desire to paint through thick and thin, believing him to be special. The clock on the wall read 9:45, and he scowled at it, blaming it for something that wasn't it's fault; a mere digital messenger of what he did not want to know. The evening had been wasted, but he didn't want it to be a total waste; the dorm's laundry room ran all night.
And it was usually quiet at this time of evening. It wouldn't be that distracting, so Tom knew he could at least do some doodling and drawing on his notepad; one of his favorite habits in his option classes. Tom carelessly threw a few shirts, shorts, socks, and various other clothing items into his laundry basket; two loads would do him for another week and change, and at the very least keep him from having to go back. He perched the basket on his hip, grabbing his notepad and pencil and walking out the door.
The rooms alternated between deathly quiet and the occasional ruckus going on; most of the students of the school had hit the bars, or the frat or sorority houses for the parties going on there. Dressed in a simple shirt and khaki shirts, and sandals on his feet, Tom wasn't out to impress anyone. It was unlikely anyone would see him.
He all but kicked the door open into the cavernous laundry area; there were more then twenty washers and dryers here, and with the hum of all of the machines and airflow needed to keep them active, he missed the fact that one of them seemed to be running at first.
Not due to the sound, though. As he scanned for which machine he would be taking, his eyes caught on something perched on one of the machines.
Or, rather, someone. Tom recovered enough to continue his sojourn towards one of the machines, but even as he knew he'd been caught gazing at her, and that she was beautiful, it wasn't her appearance that had seemed to captivate him at first.
No, something else had started to stir within him...
He was an artist. Maybe one who hadn't had a single piece of work that he'd been compensated for (unless you counted his partial scholarship), and maybe one who hadn't been able to get his art displayed anywhere where people actually paid for it yet. But to him, being an artist was just a state of mind. And as he continued to click through images, taking his time doing so, he couldn't find what he was looking for. Something that stirred him, something that challenged him, that drove him to greater heights and made him want to push his work farther. A few canvasses hung on his wall, and he shook his head at them again in disappointment; they were unfinished, and Tom was pretty sure they'd stay that way.
Eventually, he was pretty sure he had stopped looking for inspiration and had just begun looking for images that interested him, which was a different thing entirely; being interesting to him didn't mean it'd help him draw. A ten headed koala was interesting but Tom had no fucking interest in making something based off of that. Without even knowing it, his picture surfing became checking forum threads, which soon became him checking facebook and liking random statuses on it, without him knowing it.
Damn it. He clicked off the screen, grateful at that moment that he had his own dorm room. He paid a bit of a premium for it, but it was money he had; rich parents were to thank for that, ones who had supported his desire to paint through thick and thin, believing him to be special. The clock on the wall read 9:45, and he scowled at it, blaming it for something that wasn't it's fault; a mere digital messenger of what he did not want to know. The evening had been wasted, but he didn't want it to be a total waste; the dorm's laundry room ran all night.
And it was usually quiet at this time of evening. It wouldn't be that distracting, so Tom knew he could at least do some doodling and drawing on his notepad; one of his favorite habits in his option classes. Tom carelessly threw a few shirts, shorts, socks, and various other clothing items into his laundry basket; two loads would do him for another week and change, and at the very least keep him from having to go back. He perched the basket on his hip, grabbing his notepad and pencil and walking out the door.
The rooms alternated between deathly quiet and the occasional ruckus going on; most of the students of the school had hit the bars, or the frat or sorority houses for the parties going on there. Dressed in a simple shirt and khaki shirts, and sandals on his feet, Tom wasn't out to impress anyone. It was unlikely anyone would see him.
He all but kicked the door open into the cavernous laundry area; there were more then twenty washers and dryers here, and with the hum of all of the machines and airflow needed to keep them active, he missed the fact that one of them seemed to be running at first.
Not due to the sound, though. As he scanned for which machine he would be taking, his eyes caught on something perched on one of the machines.
Or, rather, someone. Tom recovered enough to continue his sojourn towards one of the machines, but even as he knew he'd been caught gazing at her, and that she was beautiful, it wasn't her appearance that had seemed to captivate him at first.
No, something else had started to stir within him...