Cursed Canvas

The veil recedes and the seeker emerges. Like a moth to flame, curiosity is forever drawn toward the abyss. Always eager to uncover what the darkness hides. But no forbidden secret is revealed without a price, a toll my ambition believed it could afford. Among the consequences for such trespass, my arm was twisted beyond understanding and stripped of all sensation. Yet the limb instinctively coils around the familiar paintbrush, stirred by the dying ember of a memory. With an unnatural pulsation, it slithers, spatters, and smears across the canvas, possessed by  whispers that bleed through the seams of reality. No civilized market would dare display such disturbing depictions. Here at the crossroads, I graciously offer these living illustrations, the spawn of infinite shadow. Their simplicity is not for lack of talent, but the boundary of what mortal minds may bear. Seldom do any realize this lesson before it’s too late. Only in the bitter clarity of ruin did I finally grasp the truth—less was enough. A choice now yours to make. The artworks await. Their pigments still warm. Quickly, let us bargain. Before your sanity shatters.