Dear Art, I'd sell my soul for you.

the only committed relationship in my life (why yes, I did draw that rose.)

Art. It’s not just a landscape—it’s an entire universe, that erupts from the the most thought bursting parts of our minds. It is a world we wish we could dissolve into, to live in forever. And the doorways to this place? They are not carved from stone, nor framed in gilded gold. They are within us. We are the keys. With every song sung, every stroke of paint, every line etched onto paper, every word spilled from our souls—we shape passageways, weaving realms where others can step inside, feel, breathe, exist within the figments of our imagination.

Drawing. I could not fathom a life without it. It is my pulse, my fire, my untamed wilderness. With every turn of my pen, I conjure something unknown—something that even I cannot predict. It’s a reckless kind of trust, an act of surrender to instincts that run deeper than my conscious surface. The journey is never neat, never precise, but filled with twists, turns, spills and misdirected strokes. And that thrill—the sheer electricity of creating something from nothing, of giving life to pigment and shape—it ignites a blaze in me that words could never capture.

There is magic in that first, hesitant touch of pencil to paper. A moment later, I am no longer bound to my body. My hands move, but they are not entirely my own. A deeper, rawer part of me takes hold—one that speaks not in words, but in lines, in shadows, in forms that carry the weight of my heart. Sometimes, it all collapses into a mess of ink and frustration. But does it matter? Art is meant to be messy. It is human. If it implies that my soul is just as messy, so be it.

Because what I create—what any artist creates—is more than an image. It is a voice, screaming in the silence, bound within the walls of the canvas, yet stretched on forever. The end of the page couldn’t possibly mark the end of that picture’s story. It’s engraved inside, beyond, and on every inch of space that the artist can grasp onto.

A thousand unspoken confessions woven into every stroke. The lines of a wrinkled face tell a story beyond the oldest of timelines, tales that unfurled eons ago. The strands of unkempt hair, the fire behind painted eyes, the bursts of untamed colour—they speak. They hold pain, love, longing, defiance, memories lost and found again.

To anyone who longs to draw—just do it. Draw a face, a Sketch the things that haunt you, the things that set you free. Let your lines dance, let your colours clash, let your hands tremble with the weight of what you feel. The world is your canvas, and your soul—your beautiful soul—is the key to filling it.

So pick up that pen. Draw until your fingers bleed, until the ink stains your fingers and your nails beyond recognition, till the paint and your soul become one, rhythmically beating the same words and emotions. Scream through every stroke the words you’ve never dared to say. Spill every raw, unfiltered emotion onto the page, wild and unrestrained. Let your art be loud, messy, chaotic—let it breathe for you. And in that chaos, you might just realise that you’ve finally set yourself free.