Styles of Expressionism H.S
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Ultima pubblicazione lun, giu 25, 2018
He was a tattoo artist by day, a painter by night. He possessed what is commonly known as an addictive personality. Perhaps inherited. He had always been like that.
He liked to ink his body. He liked to coat his lungs in smoke. He craved adrenalin rushes. He certainly enjoyed hot cups of coffee. Oh, and his paintings. No one would ever understand how much he loved to paint.
And then, one night, a new sort of addiction walked into his life. One that would be more detrimental than any before, and yet none had seemed quite so captivating.
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Here I am yet again. I feel the beat of the music at my feet. It rushes up through my body giving me a pleasing feeling overcoming my body, I can feel it as I close my eyes and take in the environment without needing the view. My senses heightened, my conscious thoughts being subsided for the moment, and my body feeling on fire as if i'm above the world and I can see myself on a the outside looking in. This is the feeling. The feeling I crave and why I come back. I come back because its simple. I'm addicted Warning: Contain explicit language, includes sexual content, drug use, and thought on depression and suicide.
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Here I am yet again. I feel the beat of the music at my feet. It rushes up through my body giving me a pleasing feeling overcoming my body, I can feel it as I close my eyes and take in the environment without needing the view. My senses heightened, my conscious thoughts being subsided for the moment, and my body feeling on fire as if i'm above the world and I can see myself on a the outside looking in. This is the feeling. The feeling I crave and why I come back. I come back because its simple. I'm addicted Warning: Contain explicit language, includes sexual content, drug use, and thought on depression and suicide.
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