From the things that I write, the music I compose, word for word, stave by stave is all for a singular purpose, and that is to pry open the gates further for me. I was told should there be no resolution in my present perspective of the world, I was to create my own. Within the azure blue ink of my pen I fabricated worlds in which I have control, a world that reflects my ideals of perfection, a world full of intricacies and pristine environments, a world that can provide for all my hedonistic desires, a tool in which my mind controls to create the inherently unrealistic, and within such a pursuit I always found solace and comfort in, all the while I actively forget the yesterday's and tomorrow's and today's that I lived.

Art is a reflection of human nature, and I want to know if my very own pursuit of art is in some form of escapism. And if it is, what does this mean for me?

It is when such comfort ceases to exist, within fragments, within shards, within the blood dripped from slashed fingertips, will one begin a descent into enlightenment.