In a world where you're captured by your own mind and the world around you, captivated by the little things most people cannot see or refuse to see, because its illogical. Logically; humans do not stop to look at the art surrounding them, refusing to see the colors and the shapes and the sounds and everything inbetween in something we are so familiar yet, so unaware of. 

 

Thats why artists are called artists. They see what everyone cannot because it is their own kalidescope behind the beholders eyes and only that beholder. They are one of a kind and erethreal; masking the pain into beauty and wonder.

 

In the city of rusted beauty, rushed cars and people; a man. A man like you and me, but nothing like you and me; the definition of home and warmth, comfort. He sits in his room by his large window only lit by the lights of the tower and the apartments across from him. He sits on a rustic chair facing a canvas that will define him. His hands are those of an artist, veins prominent in one of a kind location, guiding the brush across the material to create his define and beauty. Eyes that guide him through his glasses as his muse, he gives credit to those terrible, blinded eyes. 

 

But at least he has them.

 

The artist takes a break to attach his lips to his glass of wine, letting his eyes wonder around his canvas and the citys view. 

 

Bang Yongguk. Is the artist, the artist who dedicates himself to the painbrush and the canvas and everything the world has to offer yet nothing for himself at all. His paintings consist of a single beautiful person walking by to the night skies, the buildings and how they come alive at different times of the day; stories.

 

The artist is lonely but taken. Taken by the sadness that surrounds him of his past and the pastel colors he decides to paint over them with. The used to be black lies are now painted over with a pastel rose tone, emiting purity but taintedness only through the eyes of the beholder. 

 

Yongguk is hard on himself, as proves the hundreds of crumpled up papers thrown in the trash or missed by a landslide across the room. 

 

Broken Stories, as Yongguk likes to call them.

 

Hes struggling with this story but something about the man he is painting makes him strive to let this one live. The button nose down to the shape of his lips; divine.

 

The artist leads a cigarette up to his lips and lights it, he supposedly stopped smoking two weeks ago but who gives a .

 

Artists can't quit.

 

Pouring himself more cheap wine because god knows how much longer he will be without money, he removes his glasses and rubs at his sockets, a blinded headache moving through his brain like a storm. 

 

He walks over to the window and opens it, taking a minute to hold his cigarette and jump onto the roof and stare into the night skys souls. 

 

He didn't ask to remember ever single detail of his other muse but there he was, coated in rose gold and longing. He's trying to draw him and savior this story but hes missing something. Anyone who would look at his work would say there is nothing wrong; perfect. Yongguk hates that word because theres always something missing and he'd be damned well off if he knew what that was. 

 

Apperently all artists miss something.

But nobody would ever blink to think such a thing.

 

Yongguk is an artist, a sad lonely man roped to his canvas and chained by his past, he can't erase it like he can his sketches. 

 

Yongguk is a man shielded by the skys souls and the warm lights, cradled by his canvases and lead by his brush, but being torn apart by his wine and cigarettes.

 

Yongguk is an artist.