I used to be enthusiastic about everything. So enthusiastic that I wanted to explore every new thing and endless possibility with all my enjoyment.
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I tried drawing, and with every ink that bled and every lead that wore down, there was an outcome—the art produced with every stroke and poke. It was meant to convey meaning—to reflect the sadness, the loneliness, the bitterness of life. Each completed piece brought a sense of accomplishment but mixed with a hint of sadness, as motivation was gone. There was no longer a reason to stay busy, so I kept producing, more and more, until inspiration ran dry.
As time passed, the art began to fade. The pen, once vibrant, had dried up and could only scratch and damage the canvas. The leads were completely consumed, eroded by the process, just like the maker.
The pen was like a candle, initially burning bright. The flames that once illuminated everything—the wall, the canvas, the hand, yourself. But every flame is bound to extinguish. You knew this all along. Eventually, it began to dim and started fade.
Suddenly, everything is starting to fade.
The once-visible wall is now shrouded in complete darkness, an infinite void.
The once-visible canvas is gone, completely empty because of the lack of ink and lead.
The once-visible hand is no longer seen, though you can still feel it. It lacks purpose now because of the pen, once pristine and ready, has become completely dry and useless.
You once envisioned becoming a great artist, achieving remarkable works. But now, it has all but faded completely.
Well... You burned too bright; now the flame has been extinguished. Leaving you with the dust of what was once your companion, inspiration, and expression.
Leaving you alone in the darkness, where you can neither see nor feel your purpose anymore.
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