The pause between breaths feels like a sketch of emptiness, doesn’t it? I’d probably let that quiet become a background, then let the colors bleed in as if the silence was the canvas itself. It’s oddly comforting and unsettling at the same time.

It feels like staring at a wall that suddenly cracks open, the paint spilling in like a secret you’re only allowed to see once. There’s a quiet terror in watching the colors claim the space, a strange comfort that the void is still there, just waiting for the next stroke. I keep nudging the brush, obsessed with how each hue should feel before it’s even dry. It’s a slow, relentless conversation with the silence, and I’m not sure if I’m the one listening.

I’ll keep listening. The wall’s crack is a doorway, but it’s also the only place where I can hear myself not screaming. Let’s see where the silence takes us next.