As an artist I've always bee an imaginative child. I always tried weird random things, but i was never truly satisfied. The ideas i had were endless, it seemed, but they slowly drifted away, further and further out of reach. Eventually I gave up with my ideas, and just stuck to basing art and stories off of previous works. Life was great if you could be creative and adventurous, but I began to fade into the less bright area of art and life. Colors weren't colors anymore, just muted left overs of what people left on the brush. I still had fun being wild, but I couldn't see the full brightness of it all. I woke up, acted normal, or as normal as I could, went about my day and went back to sleep. When I was sad i drew, as well with any other emotions. My creativity was gone, but I could still duplicate others work with ease, although it never satisfied me. My parents liked my work, though it wasn't truly mine. That is why my works didn't satisfy me. THEY WEREN"T MINE. I needed my own, but until then, these would have to do. At my age and in my state, I couldn't create, just redo. Eventually, I was done with fakes, and gave up trying my own thing. Art lost meaning, and the only "art" I considered became music.
I look back these days I was imaginative longing for them back, and wishing I never had them all the same. I considered it a curse. I lost bright colors and even laughter became fake. Everything happy seems fake, so unreal. With my graphic memory I remember why I lost my happy, bright side within. I wish I never have to remember the day it happened, but wishes never come true I learned. I was young naive, and I still am. I had to be around six or eight years old, and the way it happened just made it so much worse.
When you're young, you want to sleep, when you're old you want to sleep, but sleep would never come easy for me again. I was awoken by my mom, who was getting my brothers to pack little things to leave the house. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, and sluggish as i was, began packing my own things to leave with. It was odd. Why are police in my house at o'dark thirty in the morning? The answer would come later, I'm sure. I packed my things heading out the front door, yet something made me stall. I've always wanted a new house, so why did I have to hesitate leaving my current house? I looked around the current room, seeing police with solemn looks, everything in place, but something was missing. "Doesn't dad usually leave out his coffee and newspaper when he left for work?" I though to myself. Little did i know it wasn't because he didn't, but because he couldn't... We left for a friend's house, and stayed there for a while. It was after the first few days that I learned what had transpired in the past days. The words I heard... I wish I could forget them. I wish I never found the truth, but I had, and I'll never be the same. I lost my closest friend, and even worse... my dad...
