Allow me to delve into my history a bit and retrieve a few memories I’m not fond of. It isn’t often that I become so willing to reflect on my pain, but unfortunately the bitter truth has discovered me and pulls at me strongly. Although I tend to shove it away as best as possible there are times when it reproaches me. Sadly, it’s come to disturb my happiness yet again. I sincerely hope, in reading the following, that at least one of my readers will be able to relate. As for the others, I hope for your understanding.

 

During my years in middle school art was my main passion, not to mention my dearest treasure and one true friend. Hours on end were dedicated to the activity of illustrating, much so to the point that daily necessities were often ignored. Art was perpetual; my hands labored every day to seek entertainment. Pure glee did it give me in return and nothing else, not even the few friends I had, could have made me happier. You see, dear reader, my only talent at the time was drawing. At least, the only talent I was good at and willing to improve. My idea was that I would develop that skill and grow more proud of myself than before. Thus began a motivational streak for me and before I realized it, my art showed improvement. I expanded my art by trying my hand at reference drawing and to my amazement, all came out very well; they were always much better than drawings I created from my head. As a result, I sought out other students at school to present the reference drawings to, most of which who had already seen drawings I created from using my imagination only. However, following the thrill of showing others came trouble..

 

To this day I regret presenting my art to others and I find myself constantly hearing those hurtful accusations each time I attempt to draw. With every memory I remove the friends my hand has known for years and instead give it tears to catch. In fear of being reintroduced to those accusations, I hide myself from pencil and paper as much as possible and ignore the urge to pick up where I left off. Occasionally do I seek out other artists and peek at their work only to feel the wave of depression drown me. Sometimes I catch myself being motivated to draw after seeing other artists’s work, but quickly do I remind myself of those accusations:

 

“You traced that!”

“I’ve seen your other drawings and they’re not that good, so I know you didn’t draw that!”

“You keep tracing so you need to stop trying to take credit for it!”

 

What’s more is that I received an award in the final year of middle school that gifted me the title “best artist”. If only you, my dear reader, could have been there to see all of the disapproving heads and eyes that glared at me, to see the two boys that approached me and told me I didn’t deserve it. That same day I threw out my certificate awarding me of something I didn’t deserve, convinced that I should have been the very last person to have received it. Later in life, all of my artwork soon found itself buried in the trash as well. To this day, pencil and paper have become strangers to me. I no longer affiliate myself with art, for it only frightens me now.

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