Oct 11, 2024
vocaloid sketch, 2024 ☆
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vocaloid sketch, 2024 ☆
cold visions (skull study), charcoal, 2024 ☆
Psyche Revived by Cupid’s Dagger
It was freshman year, first or second day of school, and we were in art class. We were doing the dreaded “introduce yourself and your art” and it had gotten to him. There was just. . . Something.
About him, I mean. He was timid presenting his work, forced by systemic school social pressure, and I was intrigued. His work glittered in my eyes and wrapped me within his world immediately. When we had become friends shortly after my persisting, his energy was addicting. I wanted to see what was behind his wall, his wall that was created to survive living in this world.
Later on, it was during the period of world-wide social isolation that I thought of him as my solution. I could feel myself falling further, whether it was love is something I’ll never be sure of. It was like the sculpture, where Psyche is revived by Cupid’s kiss. His timid person and art were my limerent obsession that lasted even long after we broke away from each other.
Loving him- or rather perhaps a better phrase- loving the idea of him had consumed me. It was disastrous, because once I had broken the wall it was a never ending black hole. He was a supernova. Who knows when he exploded though, because I only existed through his emptiness. Existing in a black hole is terrifying to say the least. You lose sense of yourself, time, reality, everything. He himself was even losing touch with that.
I do think that I loved him. Through his struggle of reality, there were moments when he would try to be kind and understanding, despite everything begging him not to be. I’m not always sure if he loved me, however, maybe I reflected his own instability. “And me, I am her dagger, too numb to feel her pain,” Slowdive sang and he repeated. He saw me as his angel, his sunshine girl.
He communicated through art instead of language. It was the only way I could ever see the light on his true self, a reflective surface. The problem he experienced was of his making, a reflection of others’ and never knowing what was behind it. But when art’s light shined upon him, he glittered beautifully. It didn’t matter his words, because he didn’t have to speak for me to understand. When he painted us together, it’s what kept me addicted to the pain. It was light of what we wished we could be. The light reflected his love back to me. But unfortunately, the light also reflected his pain.
Humans are not built for black holes. My guts were ripped out of me and I felt even my exterior stripping away. I had lost my insides by trying to morph myself into what would help his pain. All I ever wanted was to be able to help him in these moments, but losing your organs slowly decays your flesh. I was numb to the pain by this point, but my skin was decaying enough for my animatronic-like bones to give away hidden masochistic desperation. It was truly painful to be with him and I tried to just survive.
But there was one day where my attempts at bandaging with toy doll PVC material couldn’t sustain us any longer. It wasn’t until I was caught being broken to my last bits of bones in my car, when my curated malleable playtoy persona had been destroyed. He saw what had become of myself.
It was humiliating. To be so ripped apart by a black hole and then to see my limbs strewn about by string. He saw what had become of me. The greenery outside had turned to white when he called me, saying he saw me in the car and asked if I was okay. I don’t even remember what I said, but I knew it was too late. Our conversation blurred together, the only parts I remember being the feeling of my bones rattling through the crushing sobs erupting out of my broken voice box that was so used to playing scratched records.
He was comforting me for once! It was embarrassing, to finally be seen for how I truly was. Having concealed myself with gentle-spoken phrases when pulling my toy string attached to my spine for so long, I was mortified. There was nothing prepared for this moment from the voice box. I realized what had become but didn’t want to leave. I knew, funnily enough, that he would be the one to end it. It was painful because, now, after all this time of trying to love his pain, he couldn’t handle my own. He and I knew he couldn’t, not when it was this far, which is why he ended it.
I was crazy obsessed. I was a masochist in love with a masochist. They may attract for their shared love for pain, but there is only so much pain that one can endure before suicide. I think that’s why it was so wrong to me that he thought he was my dagger. For it was the opposite, I the Knife and him the Drug. He did teach me, however, that through all of the pain, I would rather be used for cooking than for stabbing.
dance gesture study, crayon on pizza box, 2024 ☆
djmoetron, 2024 ☆
gesture study, crayon on pizza box, 2024 ☆
meme sketch, 2024 ☆
hand sketch, 2024 ☆