i-suck-at-the-art

So many memories I hold them dearly Growing up just like brothers Although we were from different mothers I wish it wasn't hard But life isn't like that Times will be tough, as they are now Just do what we can, and hope for the best Pray with me, Pray to God Pray to survive Hope, it's all we have So hold on tight, and don't stop believing Fingers crossed Cross in hand We wait by your bed and hope He answers our prayers We got the news It made us glad After brain surgery You're going home

What happens in the end? Where do we go? Does anyone mourn? Does anyone care? Does anyone notice? Are we remembered? Do we live on in some other form? What is it like, to die? Is there pain? Is there nothing? Is it like a wave, washing us away? Are tears shed? Are there screams of agony? Are we celebrated? Does anyone cherish the memories? When will the end come? Does anyone really want it to come? Do we fear it? Do we embrace it? Have we made the most of our time? Have we lived to the fullest? Will we be alone, in the end?

This is a book. But no ordinary book. This book has pages. Pages that are blank. Their blankness seems so simple, yet its complexity is astounding. The pages call to me, they long for me to fill them with wonderful words and passionate pictures. Yet in their blankness is a cruelty. They call out to me, but decide to intimidate me. Their blankness intimidates me. Their blankness scares me. Touching pencil to paper can bring about wonders. Touching pencil to paper can bring about beauty. Touching pencil to paper can bring about the deepest, darkest emotions of anyone. These pages long to be filled with wonder, beauty and emotion.