*the artist

You took fragments of me and laid them on an old wooden paint palette. Then you turned me into the greatest masterpiece I thought I could never be.
—  Lukas W. // The artist
My sister lived within the moment. She said she would love the summer only when it came and warmed her. But I lived and still live within the future. Where it’s warm when it’s cold. Where dreams are not yet reality. Where the sad people are happy. The only problem with living in the future is that everyone has died, including yourself. So your plans are fiction. Your predictions are fantasy. Living in the future is pure fantasy. I think that’s why I love it so dearly.
—  F.K. Preston, The Artist, The Audience and a Man Called Nothing 

Not so long ago someone asked me something that sticked with me. 

“If you could talk to a younger version of yourself, what would you tell them?” 

My birthday and reaching the status of “legal adult” Has left me thinking a lot about what happened and what will. 
So i drew this little comic just to tell my future self that i have escaped hell and if i ever get back there, that i’ll escape it again. 
I’m proud that i managed to overcome something that ruined my life so terribly when i was young. 
I am grateful of the friends that i have and had, the ones that sticked with me and the ones that did not, because i have learned a lot from each other and they have helped me grow as a person. 

So to every single person that has talked with me or exchange simple hi’s. 
Thank you for making my world a brighter place and helped me escape the hell pit that i dug myself. 
It has been a life changing thing for me. 
I appreciate all of you. 
Thank you.


Prince by Philip Tong
Via Flickr:
Happy birthday to Prince Rogers Nelson!
(June 7, 1958 – April 21, 2016) 

ink drawing

Rare photoshoot of Prince for his then children back in 1996. (Left for if it was a girl, right for if it was a boy). His son would’ve been 21 this year, although he died of a rare skull disease called Pfeiffer Syndrome after a week of being born. He tried to conceive again soon after, but that child miscarried. May they both rest in peace.

The Poet

I’m known for my colourful art
But my poems are left in the dark.
I’m told I should be drawing more.
What would I be writing for?
“He’s the writer. You’re the artist.
You know your art would get you farthest.”
This conclusion has come to be
Without reading my poetry.
“Don’t need to. Your talent is great.
If I were you, it wouldn’t go to waste.”
They don’t understand. They just don’t know it,
But I’ve always been the poet.