The balance between the heaven and hell of my own personality.
The inner demons and foreign angels.
The hope that falls down like feathers from heaven.
The roar of my own insatiable need to justify my own existence and the paths that I have chosen.
The need to somehow prove that it was all worthwhile and the gnawing fear that at the end of it all, it will have been for nothing.
Regardless, I can only be myself. This is what I am.
I cannot explain it because I did not create myself.
It took 27 years to get to this point and when I put it all down, you know what?
It really doesn't seem that bad at all.
Drawing is strangely clarifying sometimes.