a soul stumbling upon my crafts and delving into them usually got put into the longest-running guessing game called, "was the author just so good she could effectively articulate melancholy and suffering through art, or was she just trauma dumping?"

for the world blurs reality by persecuting rawness and celebrating poetry, so even i ended up being the lone host for the whole show.

because between my soul, my pieces, and my heart, i, too, got confused, when did life start, and when did the artistry end?      

important note:
my characters aren't ideal and aren't something to romanticise about. the sole purpose of their existence is to represent the different shades of darkness. (to give a glimpse of what reality was like for some people) kindly keep that in mind.

general dedication:
to the stray dogs. to those who are not good at living 🍻