There is a world where iron learned to dream,
where ships no longer crawl across waves,
but rise into the bleeding arms of the sky.
A world caught between empire and anarchy,
between polished glass towers and crumbling canyon towns,
where fortunes are carved not by kings or parliaments,
but by the roaring hearts of those brave — or foolish — enough to sail the winds.
The Great Lakes have become shimmering arteries of commerce and betrayal,
their waters reflecting floating palaces gilded with stolen gold.
The North reigns with laws and ledgers, writing the sky into narrow lanes and numbered ports.
But across the border, The South fractures into outlaw skies —
where the Mourning Star finds welcome in smoke-choked ports,
and no dockmaster asks the wrong questions.
Over the Rockies and deserts, ghost winds carve names into sand and stone,
while outlaw sky port's like New Vegas rise from dust and broken prayers,
selling refitted hulls and blood-bought freedom to the highest bidder.
It is a world where
a stolen bottle of rum is worth a bullet,
a whisper of catalyst trade is worth a war,
and the Mourning Star —
half myth, half cathedral of iron and velvet —
rides the broken breath of a world that has forgotten how to look up without fear.
This is no utopia.
This is no age of innocence.
This is the Mourning Star's world:
where dreams are bought with gold,
sold with lies,
and buried in crimson wake.
Each piece I produce is a fragment of a larger tapestry—a raw, unfiltered portrayal of pain that many carry silently. My art isn't a conclusion; it's a conversation, an ongoing dialogue with the parts of ourselves we often hide.
This isn't about gore or fantasy. It's about the real, pervasive ache that lingers beneath the surface. The kind of pain that doesn't scream but whispers incessantly, eroding the soul bit by bit.
Mental health disorders, like Delusional Disorder and countless others, are not just clinical terms; they're lived experiences. They manifest in a myriad of ways—mood swings, distrust, isolation—and they often go unnoticed until it's too late.
Consider this:
Over 700,000 people die by suicide globally each year. That's one person every 40 seconds.
In the United States alone, over 49,000 people died by suicide in 2023, marking one of the highest rates in recent history.
Suicide is the third leading cause of death among 15–29-year-olds worldwide. Wikipedia+2World Health Organization (WHO)+2IASP+2
These aren't just numbers; they're lives—stories that ended too soon, often because the pain was invisible to those around them.
I was fortunate. Someone I cared about saw through my facade and urged me to seek help. That conversation didn't save my life overnight, but it planted a seed that lead to a better one. It was the beginning of a slow, arduous journey toward healing.
If you're reading this and see reflections of yourself or someone you love in my work, please know this: You're not alone. There is help, and there is hope.
If you or someone you know is struggling, reach out to a mental health professional or contact a crisis line in your region.
Resources:
Canada:
Talk Suicide Canada: 1-833-456-4566 (24/7)
Kids Help Phone: 1-800-668-6868 or text CONNECT to 686868 (24/7)
Alberta Mental Health Help Line: 1-877-303-2642National Institute of Mental Health
United States:
988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline: Call or text 988 (24/7)
Crisis Text Line: Text HOME to 741741
United Kingdom:
Samaritans: 116 123 (24/7)
Shout: Text SHOUT to 85258 (24/7)
Australia:
Lifeline: 13 11 14 (24/7)
Beyond Blue: 1300 22 4636
Your pain is valid. Your story matters. Let's continue this conversation, not just through art, but through action.
Title: My Obsession is the Art—But My Mission Is the Message
About six years ago, I was diagnosed with Delusional Disorder. The thing is, when you have DD, you don’t think you have it. That’s part of the illness. You build entire belief systems on foundations that feel solid, but were poured by fear, paranoia, or pain you never got to process. So you resist. You argue. You fight tooth and nail for the reality you think you’re living in—because admitting you’re wrong means burning your whole life down and starting over. Who the hell wants to do that?
I sure didn’t.
I ended up in a long-term psychiatric unit after fighting my demons with everything I had. When I finally sat down across from the psychiatrist and heard the words out loud, something in me shifted. I turned to my partner, and I told her: “I don’t know how, but I’m going to make this my superpower.”
That was the beginning of something else.
We dove into the research. Ordered every credible book we could find. But it didn’t take long to see how shallow the pool really was. Most texts just parrot the same tired lines—recycled academic jargon with no fresh insight, no stories, no humanity. No roadmap for people like me. And why? Because most people with DD don’t speak up. The stigma is massive. The diagnosis is rare. And let’s be honest—it’s terrifying. Not just to admit to others, but to admit to yourself.
But I’ve spent years in this fire, and now I’m finally in a place where I can talk about it—in my own way.
Art is how I do that.
My obsession is in the details, but it’s not just about pretty pictures. Every character I create is a projection of something I’ve faced. The villains I design each stem from one of the five subtypes of DD: Grandiose, Persecutory, Jealous, Erotomanic, and Somatic. These aren’t just concepts—they’re echoes of thoughts I’ve had to challenge. They’re reflections of warped perceptions I’ve fought to dismantle. Creating them is how I wrestle with my own mind.
This isn’t therapeutic in the “make art and feel better” way. It’s surgical. It's uncomfortable. It’s a ritual of self-examination where I tear back the worst things I believe about myself and lay them bare. I do it because someone needs to. Because silence keeps people sick.
DD doesn’t come out of nowhere. It builds slowly. It can have genetic roots. It might start with a little suspicion here, a strange belief there. By the time you realize something is off—if you ever do—you’re already miles down the wrong road, and retracing your steps means questioning everything: every memory, every reaction, every choice. And the worst part? You can’t even trust your memories to guide you home.
That’s why I track everything. Journals. Ledgers. Pay stubs. Photos. Emails. They’re not about nostalgia or organization—they’re survival tools. Proof. Anchors. They’re my way of locking down truth before my mind can rewrite it.
I’m obsessed with the art, and i've been producing a lot of it. But it’s not about vanity or aesthetics. It’s a weapon. A warning. A window. A way through. A visual map and representation of the seduction of my worst fears.
This is the work. This is the war.
This is me turning the worst thing that ever happened to me into something that might help someone else survive it.
Try Listening to this while reading — my personal playlist.
I know I have an obsession with a redhead.
It's called scarlet fever, and I have it bad.
She is my muse, my partner, and my everything.
Madame Revolver and the Flame are the embodiment of her—an extension of the woman I love, forged in steampunk brass, leather, and fierce compassion. It’s not just about the beauty (though that’s undeniable). It’s about power. Poise. Loyalty. And that fire she carries for protecting others, especially those society too often overlooks.
When I create her—through image, poetry, or story—I’m not just building a character.
I’m showing the world what I already know to be true about her.
Her strength. Her soul. Her shadow. Her brilliance.
All of it threads itself into Madame Revolver.
The pictures are only half the story.
The poems tell the rest—the longing, the reverence, the ache of knowing someone so rare exists beside you, and the fear that the world might never see her the way I do.
Yes, you’ll find redheads across many of my works.
It’s no accident.
Madame Revolver keeps appearing because she’s always with me—in spirit, in vision, and in every meaningful piece I create.
So if you’re here browsing my gallery…
Know that behind the corsets and revolvers, beneath the brass and bullet-hardened gazes,
beats the heart of a woman I will never stop writing about.
And loving.
I'm thrilled to announce that my artwork, "Eyes of Resilience", will be featured in a special auction hosted at ATB Financial, 3630 Brentwood Rd NW, Calgary, AB T2L 1K8, this April!
Details:
Artwork: A 36"x24" canvas print of Eyes of Resilience, featuring a striking fusion of strength, beauty, and resilience.
Auction Dates: April 1st to April 30th, 2025.
Location: ATB Financial, 3630 Brentwood Rd NW, Calgary, AB T2L 1K8 – conveniently placed at the bank's entryway.
Proceeds: All profits from this auction will be donated to the Mustard Seed Women's Shelter, supporting women in need.
Why Participate?
Not only will you have the chance to own a unique piece of art, but every auction entry also helps connect me with people who appreciate my style and may want to collaborate on future projects. By participating, you’re supporting both local art and an incredible cause.
💌 How to Enter:
Simply visit ATB Financial in Brentwood during April, place your bid, and leave your name, email, and phone number for updates and contact purposes.
Let’s make a difference together, one masterpiece at a time. Thank you for your support, and I can’t wait to see who "Eyes of Resilience" will inspire next!