Ink stains

S tetušou vodkou sme si sadli k notebooku a normálne sme čosi stvorili :3

Takéto kreatívne prostredie som si vytvorila a s troškou sexu (hoci nikde žiadna pláž :( ) vám čosi aj vzniklo...
Mrzí ma to flákanie, ale akosi ma chytilo maľovanie, hlavne farby na textíl ma očarili, tak sa prejavujem verejne takto :D
Bez štetcov ma momentálne málokedy uvidíte, preto to písanie zaostáva, ale aj ak...
Mrzí ma to, ale pozitívna správa (nie pre mňa) je, že mi dochádzajú jednofarebné tričká, takže nebudem mať na čo maľovať a teda budem musieť si dať pauzu :(
Ale tak bude čas písať ;)
A ešte jedna vec, reálnosť tohto príbehu z medicínskeho hľadiska je irelevantná ;)

Before I turn 35, I’ll die. At least that is what the doctors say. It may be true, it may not. How could I know? The only thing I can be sure about is that by then, I’ll be a different person. I’ll be older, my opinions will change, but that is not what I mean, that’s just life. If you saw me today and once again in five years, you wouldn’t recognise me. Don’t blame your memory, blame me. Or my skin, because I swear I have never asked it develop new black spots every day. When I was a child, I used to count them every morning. I named all new spots. The first one was Hayley. Then there was Anna. Then Maggie and so on. Soon I lost count and decided I didn’t actually like the spots. I told the doctors so, I told them and when they didn’t listen, I ordered them to remove the spots; I cried and threw a tantrum. It was quite a show, but the doctors couldn’t do anything.

At the age of eight, I’ve already tried all types of makeup you could get, and with no effect. They were just dots back then. Now the biggest one covers half of my palm and thumb both. I was probably fifteen when I learned to love the black spots on my skin. They made me special. They were a strange paint that made my skin a piece of art. It wasn’t much later that I learned those spots were more than mere beauty imperfection. They were death. Those beautiful drops of black paint were part of me, yet they wished to kill me all the same. No cure. No slowing the process down, no running. Those beautiful black paint drops became a clock counting down, new spot meaning one day less until my death.

One day my skin will be as black as coal, and it will not be a part of me anymore. Slowly, day by day, it turns into a cage that will envelop me one day, and take control. My own skin will hold me a prisoner, and once it decides it doesn’t want me to breathe anymore, I won’t be able to fight it.

Slowly I learned to love the spots once again. They remind me that life is short and precocious, that you can’t wait until tomorrow, and all has to be done now. So that is what I do. I write. I tell stories of thousands worlds and people, stories happy and stories sad, stories that bring pain, ones that bring joy... ones that make you think and others that make you forget about the world. I do it for people and when they read, when they forget about the pain, I forget with them.

They say that we all need something to take the pain away. I thought about it and decided I truly needed something to get addicted to. Since I wasn’t addicted to anything so far, I could just pick. Should I start smoking? Drinking? Eating chocolate or perhaps shopping? At the end, I started writing. A bit later, I started painting as well. What I got addicted to was art. I painted just like my body did on my skin, but I wanted to let the paintings breathe and live. Often I imagined the shapes moving when I looked elsewhere. They were my only companions for some time, when I lost all hopes. Once you give up on yourself, the world will do the same. If you consider yourself dead already, why should the world make you live?

When I realised I wasn’t the only one dying, that all my classmates and kids from school will follow me one day, I started believing it didn’t really matter. While I was still alive, my legs could run, my fingers could hold paintbrushes and pen, my lips could give sound to my thoughts. I was just like them. If they can hope to live a little, so can I.

When someone asked about the black spots covering my skin, I always smiled. They are ink stains, I told them, because I spent the night writing stories. I’m writing a book. One day you’ll read it, and it’ll make you happy.