Down the drain insane

I had a moment tonight. A less than disturbing, yet more than fulfilling moment.

I was sitting in my bedroom-well more of my ONCE bedroom that I had left for a happier life-and I felt that insane urge to draw. Sadly, all I had was my cheap pen that I kidnapped from the Hilton and a sketchbook that contained nothing more than drawings I had made in a mental attempt to impress a certain muse. This muse is a lead singer and a far superior artist to myself, so I keep those drawings bound. I digress.

My drawing involved a sink and, being that I wasn't sure off the top of my head HOW to draw a standard sink, I moved my very simple art studio to the bathroom, perching my self uncomfortably on top of the toliet lid. As I crouched, scribbling out the best sink I could, I began to think (a dangerous weapon in my world). I thought about alot, starting with my muse. That rolled onto art, which turned into taking an art class, which morphed into what I would to for education after high school, which changed back into "will I ever send my muse this art? Will I be laughed at for it, or praised through text, shading the rolling of eyes at how many people send him their futile attempts at art?!" And I broke a little bit. I dropped to the floor, crawled myself and my notebook to the carpeted corner, and cried. It wasn't a necessary cry, but more of a cry that came from everything snowballing up in my head.

I tossed my artbook away from myself, fearing the useless shredding of my pictures, and wept like a two year old on the floor. I started talking to myself, talking myself in and out of thoughts that weren't true. Demeaning myself. Lifting myself up. Feeling little. And, after a few deep sobs I had it again, that drive. That need to draw. I didn't stop, not for anything, not to put on music or pull my hair off of my tear stained face; nothing. I ended up drawing the best picture of my life.

Out of the drain of the sink spilled the inked in thoughts in my head: Shawn Harris, school, art, failure, success, future.

Hundreds of times the words repeated, filling the page and emptying the pen. Damning themselves to a future spent bound to my artbook.

-D