𝐏𝐮𝐧𝐤𝐅𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫 ¦ 𝐒𝐏𝐑𝐀𝐘 𝐁𝐎𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄𝐒.

🌻

Hobie never really tried graffiti before.

So he couldn't really complain about his lack of skill.
Right?

He would always walk alongside the streets of London, admiring and looking at bizarre, yet amazing and absolutely mind blowing artworks of other people.

Slim sidewalks, underground areas or bridges seemed to be the most popular places to let your creative core go completely wild.

And he had to admit to himself that he felt a creeping jealousy climbing up his back every time he saw those abstract graffiti paintings, done by human beings who were obviously way too talented for his own liking.

So much for the subject of "not complaining about his lack of skill"...

Hobie himself wasn't even untalented per se.
He was the complete opposite to be exact.
He played the guitar, wasn't bad at it, could kinda sing (alone, in the shower, when no one had to hear his outrageous, high-pitched and terrible voice), would sometimes get himself to make some new patches for his pants and battle vests and he was in a band... To encircle the whole guitar-playing-thing... without the singing-part of course.

And he was Spiderpunk.

Hobie had a few talents. His second identity being the better - bigger - part of all the things named above.

He was seemingly proud of what he was and what he was able to do for himself, for his friends, for other people and for his entire town - his environment.

But for whatever reason it wasn't enough.
Selfish characteristics were natural reactions of almost everyone out there. It's a human basic.
And somehow also a need.
There would always be something - anything - that would trigger your emotion to the point of bare madness, of having to be better than the rest around you.

It was the standard.
And as much as he despised that fact he couldn't do much about it.

He clenched his fists together, staring at a breathtaking paint job of an anonymous person.
He didn't wear his suit either.
Only his casual clothes (which wasn't any more different from his costume honestly) because he originally wanted to go for a quick walk as long as he still had the time to do so.

The calligraphy spelled the words "Punk isn't dead" in a brilliant font, with color splashes of black and white, accents of red and the coolest highlights he ever saw in his life.
It was cliché.
But still the final thread to make him furious with determination.

Because he wanted to be able to do that too!

Hobie wasn't a fan of labels.
He didn't want to hear people telling him how "amazing" and "great" and "absolutely astonishing" he was.
He was Hobie. Just Hobie.
Nothing more and nothing less.
He was himself, in his own kinda way.
And he would always be himself.