The art of drawing wings with black blood.
By Sofia Alami-Laroussi
You turn around and everything behind you is an empty and painful dead space made with black blood, in that darkness you can notice certain attributes that are intimidating and terrifying, but despite this, you are brave and capable enough of picking up a brush and making a work of art out of said dark paint. Perhaps you want to draw wings, if they are black they look much prettier, if you want to use another colour you are probably lying to yourself.
You, terrified and traumatised creature, should not run from it because the more you attempt to run, the faster it will catch you and the less time you will have to realize that this will only temporarily torture you, but it will not kill you. You might believe that it is better to die, that it is better to escape infinitely from your feared psychological pain using death as your black broken submarine, but unfortunately, once you access the nothingness, you lose the everythingness.
Death, in my deranged perspective, is an opaque dull colour, that has no tone and no return, a void where you no longer and will never be able to exist. Perhaps that non-existence is desirable and tempting, and perhaps that disconnection with life is what many of us believe that we need, but it is only a maybe, because there is no guarantee of returning to confirm our theory of the much-desired mortality and infinite dull escape.
Instead of running from the black painful paint, allow it to catch you, humiliate you, torment you and mark you with its dark dead visions. It will eventually touch you, poison and die by itself, because you, misunderstood artist, have made art with its darkness and now there is nothing that black wings cannot break or overcome.