unmarred virtuoso

life is not boxes, but it always felt like i was trapped in a humid petrified cube. without nutrients i have clawed out of the concrete, forced as a mortal and as someone far too young to go through what no one should have went through. and the reactions as i tried to live—be it pain, agony, those traumatic complex disgusting and painful emotions i have… that i saw in this manhwa. this work of art that tears me apart because i am destroyed as beautifully and patched up as beautifull

and i think, to live—to see, become, grow, change, learn, love—is beautiful but. to really experience this cutting, achingly painful joy of really feeling that being alive is something to rejoice over is one that you should appreciate more than any dawn, any idyllic scenery, any melody. to appreciate yourself is terrifying but to know that you truly can is strengthening like no other.

This is absolutely marvellous, the psychological aspects—the thrills, the tension, effortlessly drawn out with the angles, the expressions, all flaunting the masterful use of this medium. I am absolutely enthralled by how well-paced and how the story flowed as well as showing the motivations and ruthlessness of both protagonists.

envy, resentment, and, desire mixing like a cocktail to arrive at the dreadful colour of burgundy. a thrilling read of secrets and craving that spills out of the page and drips down to the floor, a thing that forces you to ponder and reflect and speculate; the story a combination of factors that made it reach that ending.

this is an extremely disturbing in-depth look on how societal conceptions and deeply ingrained ideas such as misogyny (power, control, inferiority) manifests in a tangible manner in regards to those with unstable minds—such ideologies fuel and feed on instability prompting a cycle that is, simply put, an uroboros. routinely woven into the narrative are motives that keep getting added onto and unfold as the story progresses from there you can see clearly the writer’s objectives on spe

we exist upon a blank canvas that stretches out, we are clothed in a never-ending expanse of white. that’s where we stand when we are born. throughout life we inhale and exhale to pile up the moments we collect and the feelings we procure stain this blankness.
there is no direction in existence. no colour. no ending.

we merely create and create, together, we become and truly exist upon this slate that is covered with infinite colours.

my playlist:
https://tinyurl.com/musicthehorizon