Chapter Text
Since my first memories of kindergarten, when I was 3, painting a rainbow on a morning sky with stars, nonsensical, whimsical- my old dreams.
I wasn't very good.
I was not born with talent.
Not like my brother.
He did not love the arts as I did, and yet, he was blessed with a good pulse, good eyes, smart.
I had to build the skills myself; I was shity. But what 4-year-old wasn't? It wasn't my fault I didn't know how to color correctly, dear brother. I hated you. I still do.
You took all I am; you are older.
You are better.
You judge.
You hurt.
Art was me.
All I knew of me.
And you were better.
You still are.
I am now 18, soon to be 19. It's been 15 years. I draw many things; the most recent are two girls, with bright colors and the contrast of dark skin being held by olive, my hope.
But that's a lie; it hasn't been fifteen, I stopped drawing for a time. I was 14, drowning in an empty void; I missed feeling like a person, an empty shell, hollow and desperate to be filled with approval, hoping it would fix what was broken in me. Drawing felt tiresome. I hated it. Hated that I could no longer feel that same passion.
I hated me.
I didn't touch a pencil for two years.
It hurt. Because I could remember how it felt. To love me. To love those pieces of me. Now I couldn't, not even those pieces.
I remember,
When I first watched a Disney film, how I felt. I don't remember which one, to be honest. Could've been Pocahontas, could've been The Little Mermaid, maybe Mulan, maybe even Cinderella.
All I remember, all that mattered, was how I felt then, 5, maybe four years old, in love with the drawings, the art, the colors... it was love at first sight.
I could never love something more.
Disney birthed my biggest passion, and my biggest insecurity.
The arts.
I owe it to their artists; they sparked a flame that has been snuffed out and yet still comes back.
Like a lotus.
And when I lost it. When I lost myself.
I was nothing.
I am a very envious person.
I know that.
I'm envious, for I don't love who I am. And then, back then, I couldn't even love my gifted pieces.
My soul was empty.
I could not paint, sketch, or write any pieces of passion, with my soul so hollow...
I was 16,
when I began to cry again,
healing,
still hurting, but open to speak.
I felt like a person once more, the world still dark, but not empty, and darkness can only be seen where there is light. Or at least, that's how the real world works.
I met wonderful people there. At school. I don't speak with them anymore; I doubt most remember me. I was very shy about photographs.
Ain't that silly? An artist? Scared to be set in stone.
Ain't it funny... how I made sure I didn't leave a trace of me in their lives? Not in photos.
At least.
But they have painted my soul with their affection.
Taught me to act like a normal person, taught me to be real. Until I touched a pen; I drew again.
16. I lost so much progress.
My first drawing in a while; I have gifted many, gifted them to those who mattered: my feelings, hopes, sorrows. I remember it, sorta; it was flowers, simple daisies and dandelions. So, perhaps, the tally is closer to 13 years.
13 years of feelings.
13 years of me.
13 years spread across land, either in dumpsters, in bedrooms, in boxes, or lost, for I gifted most.
13 years of love, friendship, inspiration, passion like many others, but no less cherished; they may not, but even if I don't know who I am. Those drawings paint a good picture.
Now I'm 18.
18 and with good people. One I know will leave the country, two I adore but am unsure if they like me, one I trust, but know I will not stay connected to.
I love them. In many different ways. These people were there, with gentle words, flimsy but safe hands, and without me asking, they slid me the pieces of myself so I could work, so I could glue them together.
I feel like someone again, not someone I love. But I will learn.
they gifted me the best thing i could ask for.
It wasn't their job; I cannot say whether they intended to or not, whether it pained them or was a burden. But I know they stayed. I know they will be there tomorrow.
How could I not gift them things? Gift them my pieces?
When they are so good to me...
Precious,
I cannot help but think.
Whenever I hear them, see them.
Precious gems, sweet flowers, strong supports.
They are everything.
And I feel like something.
It's the first time I miss someone.
Cheesy, isn't it?
love is a fickle thing. Or so they say. But it doesn't feel very fickle when it only takes one breeze, one hint, one look, to feel like it's going to be okay.
Because they didn't fix me.
I still have a long way to go.
But with them,
I feel like I'm going to be okay.
not now.
probably not tomorrow.
maybe not later.
but someday. Someday I'll be okay.
Traditional, Digital, Paintings... That's all me. Simple, boring, loving, basic me... oh how I love them... and they loved me.
so...
there must be something to love. of me.
one day.
I will love me.
but for now, I will love the pieces I have gifted... for a part of me, they shall be.
forever more, to whoever I am now.
I will love you.
You who is I.
...
some day.