Photo by Goashape on Unsplash

t’s 2017, and you’re starting anew. New city, people, house, and possibly new you. You recently live in a toxic environment where you and your parents lived with your grandparents from your mother’s side. Your mind fills with excitement when you left their house; finally, you can have your own space to concentrate on your endeavors, you thought. When you arrived to your new house, free from the madness, felt relief. A smile grew on your face-it’s that relieving. You lived in white blue trimmed moderate size one-story house, four bedrooms, two baths, and your own space.

Since you were excited to feel liberated, you immediately started your projects and apply for college. You began your music project, hoping to create something more listenable than your first project. For college, you already had in mind what classes you wanted, only thing left was to register. You signed up for four classes, and hoped to pass all of them because community college fed you up, and a going to a university excited you. When you lived with your grandparents, you went to community college, but the stress of living there got to you, and as a result, you failed a few of your classes. Leaving from there, life once again made sense, and nothing could go wrong.

Before the first day of the semester, you thought about all the plans you had once you finished college, and how you will make friends. The day arrived within the snap of a finger, and you made your way to the new campus. The first day of college went well. The first day introduced you to your math professor, a slender man, shaved head, and soul patch. You could use your calculator, so you not failing didn’t worry you. Your second class, critical thinking. The professor is a much slender man, mid-length brown hair with accompanied tenor pitched voice. Writing was most of the grade, and you weren’t sure own you’ll preform; writing isn’t your strong suit.

The following day you met your singing professor, a tall man, glasses, and balding grey head. You enjoy singing, and your voice wasn’t terrible; it only freighted you to sing in front of others. Last, you met the instructor who will change your life, and reevaluate your major, art. The art professor, Robert Peterson is an older gentleman, wore sunglasses, sleeve tattoo on both arms, pierced ears with gauges, and dressed like the hipster of his time. He looked like a cool guy, but he had a serious approach to drawing. He treated art as if it was rocket science; one mis step, and you’re screwed. He reminded you of your graphic design professor, back in the other college, but his rhetoric didn’t scare you. Mr. Peterson didn’t scare you either, but he showed the competitiveness of-the-art industry. You thought, it’s only four months, I can survive.

On the first day of drawing class, you and the students got out your landscape sized sketch books, and drew lines, and from lines, zig-zags, and told us to repeat it at least ten times! The following day, you and the students had to draw a desk with objects. Now and then, Mr. Peterson will rearrange the shapes to draw the same thing. This is tedious, but you understand this is what artist do to practice every single day. He noticed you were struggling, and he told you to remind him to help you, but your fear of speaking up stopped you. Maybe you could’ve found a new appreciation for art if you ask for help, but you’ll never know.

Two months went by, and the class didn’t get any simpler. The lack of practicing drawing finally kicked in, and it gave you anxiety to practice. The anxiety surged through your body like a deadly toxin. You felt like dropping, but the pretty red-headed girl made you want to stay. Through the entire semester, you needed to create a major assignment based on any topic. You choose mental illness, since you were currently suffering from mental illness, but the topic is trite; you couldn’t come up with any good ideas. Eventually, you gave in and dropped the class. It isn’t worth it to make it to the end. You knew you’ll fail if you stick around. Getting to know the red-headed girl wasn’t worth it. The semester came and went, and your conscience filled with guilt from dropping not only the drawing class, but singing class. The take away from this, you found out art wasn’t for you. It only took one intense art instructor to realize; writing is your passion.

I'm just a guy who enjoys music, books, film, animation, video games, and the mysteries of life. Website:

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