Underwater Danger

Lately, I've realized I don’t quite fit in with most people. I don't mind, though. I prefer the comfort of my home — a quiet space where I can disappear into four-hour Dateline marathons or lose myself in ridiculous podcasts. Solitude feels safe. It’s me, a small room, and canvases far too large for the space they inhabit.

Two small dressers overflow with chaos: tubes of paint, countless Posca pens, and the occasional sharp thing that finds my fingers when I reach in too fast. It's cluttered, messy — but it's mine.

Last night, I finished this piece. It called to me. I call it Underwater Danger.

I can’t swim, so deep water has always unsettled me. The thought of not being able to touch the bottom — that endless, unseen abyss — sends a shiver down my spine. That fear seeped into this painting.

She’s beautiful, isn’t she? And deadly. A siren of the deep. She lures you in with a sweet song, a gentle touch, a warm kiss — but it’s not affection you feel. It’s the way predators taste their prey. Before you know it, you’re sinking. She’s dragging you into the darkness, her tentacles wrapping tight.

Down there, she slices you open, feasting on what lies beneath your skin. And maybe, when she’s done, she’ll decide your body makes a good nest — a perfect place to lay her eggs. That’s just the circle of life, after all.

Underwater Danger. 2025.

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