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black ink

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You notice a white dot on your pristine black canvas, thats what this feels like
To know that even when you paint over it that it will never truly be as black as whats around it
To try anyways and know that you will fail, thats what this feels like
To line up ten white sheets and stare at them until the appearance of perfection is laughable, thats what this feels like
To want to throw buckets of indian black ink on them until thats all you see
To notice that single white dot on every page,
To rip all ten of them until they become thousands and millions and still remember the white dot, thats what this feels like
To start again and realize that your sketchbook is empty
To not have enough paint to cover the floor, thats what this feels like
To feel the breath stuck in your throat because the hunger you feel is not for food
To need something so much you despise it
To only have one thing you dont want to think about, yet your brain plays it on repeat, thats what this feels like
 
To look around and see that other people painted their canvases yellow
That is what this feels like.




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