breezeblocks; t.j. + j.d.

DARLING; I

"everything you can imagine is real."
-pablo picasso

HIS LIPS ARE RED, PLUMP, BITTEN; RAW. they sting for a moment, and it's fleeting, it really is, because the air's hitting where the skin had been peeled off, and it hurts for a few seconds. his eyes are taking in every minuscule detail heavily, the dark, deep richness of his irises whisking along the border of his canvas coolly, like leaves; crisp, brown leaves drifting softly through the air.

his hair is curling at the ends, feathering over the tops of his ears and sticking up and out in certain areas. he's ran his fingers through it so many times that it's unusually taut, the front of it standing straight up.

there's a large count of various paint colors clinging to the tufts of hair. he's always been a messy painter, muddling his hair and clothes and skin every time he sits down across from a stretched canvas.

the music playing softly around him flows through the air elegantly. the breeze carries the easy sounds throughout the room, the open window permitting it.

he sways from side-to-side for a moment, closing his eyes and breathing in through his nose, letting the music protect his body, his soul.

when his eyes reopen, his eyelashes flutter a bit, and they're resting delicately on the base of his cheeks, creating shadows that make him look like a carefully-crafted piece of artwork. he's been told that he didn't need to create art before— been told that he is the art, and that it is a curse and a blessing altogether in one. he was told that it's a blessing because a pretty face can seem to get one anywhere. he was told that it's a curse because everything he creates pales in comparison to himself; dulls the colors of his paint and moots the shades of his hues.

he signs his name at the bottom of the painting. it's always been one of his favorite parts. a signature always looks so formal, so official, like he's claiming the area above his name, saying, "this is my creation and i stand by it."  he thinks for a moment that he wishes he could also add a few words beside his signature that mean something like, "whether you appreciate it or not has nothing to do with my ability to create."

he doesn't write anything though, just leaves it like he always leaves it, and he finds solidity and sureness in it nonetheless.

TYLER JOSEPH; OCTOBER 12, 2016.

tyler's a peaceful human, never getting into arguments, avoiding confrontation, and trying his best to make others smile, but he's at his most peaceful point when he's painting-- or drawing, or sketching, or sculpting, or digitally mastering the technological skills related to all things art-like, or doing his or someone else's makeup, or writing, or singing, or playing his ukulele. it doesn't matter what he's doing, as long as he's creating.

creation is peace, tyler thinks, creation is peace.

he stands, his sweater swishing with the movement. it's draping off of his small stature, and the delicious curves of his collarbones are showing. tyler's practically glowing under the sunlight streaming in from his large window, and the feeling of serenity that watches over him makes him smile softly.

tyler can hear birds singing, their sharp chirps mixing in with the melody of the music playing, and he can feel the morning sun warming his skin.