The first time you hold a pen, a paintbrush, your eyes sparkle.
"Is this the thing, the wish , I've been waiting for my whole life?"
It feels like you've opened a horizon, only for you.
Then you enter the horizon, meeting other who're doing the same. Among thier experience, their determination, their dazzling creations, you feel miniscule, but you keep trying and trying, you change ,you cry but you try to stand out.
Your hobby feels like a curse, your dreams shackles.
Then you make peace with it, it's okay. Not everyone has to be outstanding, but everyone can enjoy.
You enjoy what you do, you do them occassionally.
Until one day you feel as if you're possesed, you create something, maybe in one sitting, maybe at 3 AM , you don't think much of it.
You show them to other people, they love it.
They wanr more, they have high expectations of you.
It gets praises, awes, crossing limits you never thought YOU could cross.
You become scared. It technically wasn't you who created it. It was a feeling, the art practiaaly drew itself the story practically wrote itself and-
How do you replicate that feeling?
Yet the sudden attention makes the old wishes come alive, stirring dangerously within your chest and you can't stop ,you want to create more, more ,more.
Though the story no longer writes itself, the paintbrush doesnt drag your hands along with it.
