I lost a piece of me the day I quit art. All the colour in my life faded. Nothing felt beautiful. My daydreams turned into zoning out to avoid my anxious thoughts.
I used to cry every time I got deep into an art piece; that point where I catch a glimpse of the final product coming together. I would get this overwhelming feeling of pride and harmonious comfort. I felt so lucky to be skilled and passionate about something so beautiful. Something that could impact others. I never once cared about impressing others with my art, I just hoped my form of expression could bring a flicker to their creative lightbulb.
Those joyful tears that rushed down my face no longer exist. Well, they exist, but there is nothing joyous about them. I can’t draw without crying out of frustration. Out of fear. The fear that I have lost my ability to create. Frustrated that I let go of this gift. Let go of myself.
Art was never my identity. People never saw me as an “art kid”.