Bleeding Ink
If you asked me to describe what it means to be human, I’d describe it as this. Crisp white pages soon to be covered in colors too beautiful to describe. A black cover covered in doodled white lines and stickers that describe the artist's innermost thoughts. A black spine that holds it, and me, together. It comforts me when no living being can. The book itself is not heavy, and yet when I write in it it’s as if I’m Atlas, the king of the sky, and my burden has been lifted from my shoulders. Freely does it allow me to vent and cry, the very rawest of my human emotions spilling out on it’s blank pages. My sketchbook isn’t living, and yet it’s become one of the things I rely on most. I rely on my sketchbook because my sketchbook allows me to be human without judgment. It holds my soul within it’s pages, it soothes it, heals it. It embraces me like an old, long lost friend. Inside my sketchbook, I am warm, I am safe, I am allowed to cry.
