I met the edge of myself that night. In a shitty motel room, After the fire I met the darkest of dark— “She’s dead.” a black void opened as the walls closed in knees buckled to carpet, voice breaking open like glass i didn’t mean to drop. Everything too much, too real, too gone. And still— beneath the wreckage of sound and breath, something violet began to move, not as comfort, but as witness. A friend. A canvas. A brush. Wavy Purple— my second life had begun and in that moment there was nothing left to fix, so I painted. a flame lit up the void and to this day it burns 🔥