paigeliana

Being an artist sometimes feels like being a gladiator. Though the occasional flowers heal the superficial wounds or boost the ego after an exhausting fight, they do nothing to keep pain at bay when I go back to my cage. Just like gladiators who die in the arena, spilling their guts out in the concrete and omnipresent dirt, just like the reality of the screams and wails covered by the cheers of the masses... so do I spill everything I feel on paper, for your entertainment. And just like the cuts of a sword through the flesh, going down with a shriek on the naked bone, are real, so are the nervous strokes of the pencil real, and the words are