To have the heart of an artist, one doesn't need the hands of an artist, only the ability to see beauty in flaw. To see cracks for their character, rather than their weakness. To find poetry in the tears pouring from ones eyes. To see paintings in even the darkest depths of ones soul.

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Sometimes I lay in bed, and whilst I should be sleeping, I can't. I can't. I can't because suddenly I feel as if I can't breathe. I am trapped. Trapped in need. Need to run in the cold, need to feel the icy bite of pain shooting through me as I crawl out of my window to run in a world where I feel everything and nothing at once. A world where the boom of fireworks overwhelms the detriment of the s...

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