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Description

I could see the tortured sorrow in his eyes, the pained expression displayed on his face as he stared into the distance with an aloof expression. Was he tired of the world? His brow was contorted in a position of stern sensibility, as if he was focused on scowling at something. I couldn't look him in the eyes because I was frightened that he would find out everything about me. Knowing I had nothing to hide, I glanced at him once again, scared that his gaze would blind my soul in a rush of dark terror.

Instead, I saw something different. I don't know exactly, but it wasn't a look of contempt; it was a look of despair. A life of troubled experiences, restless nights viewing tomes of ancient manuscripts, people who looked up to him constantly. He wasn't menacing at all; he was torn between an optimistic disposition and a pragmatic outlook on reality. I felt sorry that I had judged the man as he continued to stare at my lens. He was agitated and furious, exhausted and confused. But above all, he was longing. But for what? A reprieve? Redemption? An answer? I pondered on what he was thinking, hoping to find a clue in the windows to his soul.

He was a grounded individual; everything about him was distinctly realistic. Underneath that indifferent facade was a blend of humorous fecal jokes and a knack for planning. I couldn't see it then, but I realized he might have been annoyed at the inefficiency of the situation, vexed at another unnecessary reference to antiquated pop culture, scheming up another plan to surprise his subordinates. My memory faded as I walked out the room, but I would always remember one thing.

He never said a word.

Description

I could see the tortured sorrow in his eyes, the pained expression displayed on his face as he stared into the distance with an aloof expression. Was he tired of the world? His brow was contorted in a position of stern sensibility, as if he was focused on scowling at something. I couldn't look him in the eyes because I was frightened that he would find out everything about me. Knowing I had nothing to hide, I glanced at him once again, scared that his gaze would blind my soul in a rush of dark terror.

Instead, I saw something different. I don't know exactly, but it wasn't a look of contempt; it was a look of despair. A life of troubled experiences, restless nights viewing tomes of ancient manuscripts, people who looked up to him constantly. He wasn't menacing at all; he was torn between an optimistic disposition and a pragmatic outlook on reality. I felt sorry that I had judged the man as he continued to stare at my lens. He was agitated and furious, exhausted and confused. But above all, he was longing. But for what? A reprieve? Redemption? An answer? I pondered on what he was thinking, hoping to find a clue in the windows to his soul.

He was a grounded individual; everything about him was distinctly realistic. Underneath that indifferent facade was a blend of humorous fecal jokes and a knack for planning. I couldn't see it then, but I realized he might have been annoyed at the inefficiency of the situation, vexed at another unnecessary reference to antiquated pop culture, scheming up another plan to surprise his subordinates. My memory faded as I walked out the room, but I would always remember one thing.

He never said a word.