I am an identity of true colour, passion, and my own world holds me by two erratic strings. My mood is always lethargic and numb, but I am emotional under the blank stares and batting eyes. My art is always a part of me, but just because I make something that looks happy, doesn't mean I am happy. Just because I create something pertaining to suicide, doesn't mean I'm suicidal. Or maybe it does. But who is the population of humanity to judge so? I am a shy person in a shell, and my art let's me out.

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