Last night, I was on the peak of my creative energies when one wrong flick of my fingers almost obliterated every artistic feeling in me.
My plan for the night was to create something for someone, or rather someones (allow me to use such word, there are a lot of them you know), since my mind was restless with images I ought to translate into something I can see, touch, and feel, and then give away. But upon readying this little black bottle of dark fluid in a hurry, it spilled all over me—all over. Looking at the mirror, I was a wiccan in less than a minute. No offense to the art and conviction, but that’s how I can describe myself for the meantime. I should have said to everyone around me that night, “Look, got myself into a new cult!”
With a powerful body scrub that I believe could have rivaled Dirg’s, Marianne’s, and my plans on that spa in downtown Dumaguete, I went out of the bathroom and also pitied my surf shorts that I left discouragingly in a basin of water with a sprinkle of Tide, hopelessly thinking it could actually do wonders.
But yet, even with that incident that indelibly leave dark blotches on my skin up to now, I went on to do some sketching, penning, and inking that night. And here are some of the results.
And hey Mario, you owe me one for what happened.