Oct 2, 2024
and it drives me insane. the need to never stop creating until you deserve your own name. art is nothing short of a dream, and a nightmare in itself. perfectly written letters, sharp enough to draw blood. hell’s fire comes pouring down in a single cry and so does the long-awaited flood. how is it that i can feel everything and nothing at once? oh mother, tell me, was putting the blade away really worth it or should i still keep checking for a pulse? oh mother, tell me, does art ever really die or does real immortality lie within us?
// found something i had written last winter in my docs [p.s. i am so open to title suggestions]
