The Painter and his Lover

passion?

"you know you are really good at this. how do you even manage to finish that in a minute?"

"with a great outcome"

I have a lot of words to say but only manage to come with that statement, mesmerized by my portrait made by him.

"aw, come one men. how come I'm pretty here pretty much far from my reality." I laugh while holding it up close to see each detail.

"you know when you always do something, but its I'mnot that yet good"

"I wish I have that passion too."

"then. what do you say about your studying aren't-"

"its not passion I just dont have anything to do." fidgeting with my eyes looking everywhere but his eyes, that question makes me nervous and the sentence that come out suddenly makes me unsure of my self, it makes me feels like I dont even really know my self.

it sadden me to think that I was so carefree to the point that I don't really know what I want or what I dont I have so many opinions and all of them doesn't match up.

memories suddenly start flashing before my eyes, first one is me talking about how I like to do this certain thing for until I get old. then followed by me talking the same thing but not with that certain thing with. everythings is a repetance with same sentence but a different subject it makes me sick.

remebering my old self talking about my so called passion in various subject. empty,hate, that's what I feel empty inside and hate to myself when did I start becoming like this-

tears dripping from my eyes and I turn my head wipping the tears.