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RE: When No One Wants to Breathe
The sea was that crude sequence that separates us.
You throw bottles.
I wait for them, read the messages, treasure them.
Then I have to sell the bottles.
Hunt butterflies and cut off their wings.
It pays very well: for every thousand scorched butterflies, a small slip of paper to buy a crumb of bread.
Indeed, the support found in those bottles is what keeps us going, helping to secure the very bread we eat. It is a heartbreaking trade-off; in this world, dreams are often the first thing we have to 'kill' for the sake of survival.
We hunt the butterflies not because we want to, but because we must.
You are a great artist, my friend.
You have a defined and consistent style.
Art comes naturally to you.
It's true, we need those little glimpses of life, the glimmers of hope that come from those who care about us.
In the dark of night, amidst all the monsters we must appease and suppress, I hope you are well; you are very strong.
I admire your strength. Here, in this part of the world, you have a friend who listens and empathizes.
Don't let your art leave you.
A hug.
Hope lights up the darkness in our life. Every word of encouragement is like the elixir for strength to carry on. I wish people are more aware of this than just recklessly throwing discouragement on others.