People say my art is too dark. Too deep. Too much. So I stopped. But let’s get one thing straight: I can’t write about love because I fucking loathe it. Love erases people. It makes them vanish into someone else’s suffocating shadow, leaving nothing but a ghost of who they once were.
Colors? Don’t even start. I don’t see them. I see nothing but grey. Every so-called rainbow is just a sick joke. When light shows up, I brace for the darkness. Grey. Always grey.
Friends? I don’t have them. Just vultures circling close enough to sink their teeth into my flesh.
Life? That’s the only thing left to write about. Why we’re here. I’ve got questions that dig so deep they bleed. About me. About you. About memories. But never about love. Never about colors. Colors are a lie. They’re washed away by the relentless rain, scorched by the blinding sun, until all that’s left is cold, empty grey.
So forget colors. Let’s dive into grey. Maybe if we drown in it, we’ll discover the truth about the colors that never fucking existed.
And to those who think my art is too dark: I’m not sorry. I write from a heart so black it’s lost every shred of its color.
That was impressive to read🔥