Crimson

Depressed maniacs, demented souls, drug addicts, People who slit their hands. They don't do it to be pretentious. Its the pain that relieves them, Its the pleasure that they get, Its silence that they can hear. And it may be mad for the other world but its solace for them. Bonding of flesh and metal, A bond that is complete and unconditional, An existence of their insanity, A feeling of being alive.

Its when insanity reaches a level, when reason vanishes, its you and the wall, the knife. A marriage between you and pain. A bond that is unconditional, pure and born out of pure thirst, of addiction. The worldly perspective vanishes, its when you have been inflicted by so much of pain, a plethora of emotions pounding upon you, leaving you out of space in your mind to look into happiness, that you become numb, immune to it and start enjoying it rather, become addicted to the lucrative sheen on the metal. Its a whole new world of trapped explosive, ferocious emotions, carefully preserved and tamed by the touch of the metal, the satisfaction of the stream of blood trickling down your arm. Its an undiscovered world present in a small space, waiting to explode to tell its miseries, but even then still content in itself. Its a dangerous world capable of many horrors as well as great deeds. Its one of the greatest wonders and mysteries present in each soul in this earth. It is Beautiful.