I haven’t touched my drawing tablet in a while.
On the night I decided to pick it up again, I felt as if I was being swallowed by a world that was filled with static, an enormous, extensive kind of noise that just wouldn’t go away. I tried to run from it, shutting the turbulent loudness out with music, letting the songs turn into streets and alleyways to where I can escape. In the darkness of my small, solitary corner, I don’t know why Sylas emerged. Perhaps because I thought myself approaching the edge of madness, and took comfort in the illusion that he was real because it meant that, for a moment, I wasn’t alone in my insanity.
And that, perhaps, something beautiful can be born from something so ugly.










