I usually throw the papers away, tuck the write ups in a corner, in a box. if I could, I'll sail it away to the farthest end of the ocean hoping no one is on the other side.

Because I see them, I see others pour their soul into their art, and I hear the art speak to me -"i am at the apogee and you? You are way beneath me. You're at the surface of the levelled ground. "

So it hurts,my insides shrivel and my heart clenches in pain, because I'd never feel satisfied with my art.

I am not alone, though. Many people feel the same way, their arts in various forms, feels banal, feels stripped off, of what makes it art.

So when I sit in the confines of my home staring at my work, I feel it's not enough, I feel everyone I know must have lied to me, must have tried to soothe my pain, must have tried to inflate my ego by telling me I was talented, telling me my art was special, what Is special though?
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