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by its_petrichor

by its_petrichor

I've been having dreams of art school lately
maybe because I keep bringing it up in French when we get asked questions about our past

it was only last week when our professor asked us what the best day of our lives was
and I knew the answer even before I could notice that I did
or when she asked us what were we good at
I wrote it down with pride

time has made me nostalgic
to the point where I almost miss the stench of acrylics in the fourth floor painting room
I miss the crooked chairs and the dirty easels and the metal water jugs
covered with seven layers of oils and turpentine
god how I hated washing them

and how I wish I could walk up that one secret staircase that led to nowhere and marvel at the student paintings all over the walls and sit in the cafeteria
I miss feeling the thickness of my pencil against the paper and knowing its number with my eyes closed
I miss countering shade with light
I miss looking at a houseplant and seeing how deep its surface goes

I don't look at objects that way anymore
I did for a while after
but in my unforgiving hatred
I forced myself to grow out of it
I have robbed myself in ways I only now start to realise
but back then
it was the price I had to pay to stop the pain
I was doing my best

of all things
I am not angry at myself for quitting art
what I've been feeling
it is not anger
it is something of a longing
regret maybe
that I have all this talent
raised through my very definition of labour
and it's just sitting there
dormant

maybe
when the exhaustion and bitterness came crashing through the door
I let it in so far
so deep
that I forgot how much I loved it
the thrill of making something with my own two hands
I wish I remembered it the day I threw all my paints
my brushes
my work
in the trash

I used to cry in pain from how much I wanted it to stop
and today
five years later
I cry because I'd give everything I have just to hold even the most horrendous one of my paintings in my hands
to be able to pick up a brush or a pencil or a piece of coal
I wouldn't even know where to start

I have entire worlds and nations at the tips of my fingers
I speak all of their languages
but I am mute