A cyclical addiction that I cannot deny, I am lured by the mixing of reality with hope. I binge on the emotion, wallowing in its depth. The endorphins give me the texture, enable the distorted visions, and find the purpose in tragedy. Touching the places in the soul that are held private; protected.

The motion is not graceful and feels sudden when I urgently purge all of these senses onto the canvas. Notebook after notebook of scratches, words barely legible in the intoxication of the moment. Moving the pen to the muse.