Paint It Black.

I keep drawing things.

drawing things that I don't even know why I draw them.

maybe sadness.

maybe loneliness.

maybe because all of those unexplainable things that even I can't imagine how to find the simplest description of those things.

I drew girl that cried.

I drew two hands that were holding iPhones, male hand and female hand, that have tattoos.

I drew a doughnut. yes, weird. doughnut.

I drew men who played bass.

I drew skull with spine.

I drew gun with rose behind it.

I drew heart. human heart.

I drew two hands. again. one was in the air, wanted to shake the other's hand. the other was gesturing that the person didn't want to shake the one's hand.

there are words within those drawings. that I want to utter. words that came through my head. words that I like to be in the drawings. words that built the drawings. those writing may seem weird. may seem awkward. but those words are currently words that represent me the most. I love writing while drawing. I love questioning while drawing.

questions about the people that left. questions about people that leave nothing but vague memories. questions. questions. questions. I can't stand this. I'm one of those girls who think logically, so I'm one of those girls who need explanations, too. its like you know a good book, you've seen it a lot of times, but you just can't seem to touch it, you just can't read it, you just can't open it. because it is locked. behind bars. behind high ceilings. behind trapped doors. behind everything. the book's friend is only the darkness. waiting to be opened for someone that brave enough to dig it, I just don't understand how to dig it. how to safe myself but at the same time read the book. gain the knowledge. how to safely understand things.

the photo above is mine. pictures with stories behind my drawings coming up next.