Getting My Thoughts Out

??? might be an actual story later on

Quiet drops of water echo throughout the the silence, a steady, constant beat that adds to the white noise in the background. The scene was almost like a photograph, only to be disturbed by sharp movements coming from the corner of the room. There a boy sat, sometimes for hours at a time, sometimes for a mere minute. His presence broke the tranquil atmosphere, adding a sense of urgency in his every movement. Each importunate stroke of graphite set up a base for a masterpiece he would breifly be proud of, but ultimately discard in disgust.

Passion ran through his veins, treating his art as if it were a life or death situation. He knew not to take a break, and was in a constant battle with conciousness.

Raven hair touched the surface of the mahogany desk as he lost on of his countless battles. His erratic breath stabilized, bringing peace back to the art major's abode.

Perfectionism, a disposition to regard anything short of perfection as unacceptable, was his problem. Often seen as lazy or obsessive, he definitely took the latter of the options. Peers and acquaintances were blind to his ever growing issue as they only saw the best of him.

When the best of someone is all that is presented it is seen as talent, a natural aptitude, something someone was born with. They only notice what they want and simply state that they could not have done it because they were not born with the ability to do it. They overlook the dark bags under the other's eyes, the crumpled pieces of paper that fill their room, the habitual movements that only come from constant practice. They deny that they could work harder to achieve that level of skill. Skill is something completely different. To have skill one must work to gain it, for some to the point they lose their sanity. It should not be possible for a human to improve at such a rate, but being the creatures they are they manage to achieve the accomplishment.

But there will always be consequences to every deed done with such haste. Countless hours hours spent on obssessive fanaticism equate to countless hours of wasted youth. Hours spent constantly trying to fix a single mistake only shorten one's life. Though in some cases youth is not available to all.

Time slowly passed, shadows from the window shifted and allowed light to enter the nearly desolate room. The only signs of use come from the crumpled papers strewn around the boy's form. Disturbed by the soft light, the boy's eyes flutter open. Drowsiness is rapidly replaced by panic as he notices the uncompleted piece underneath him. Realizing the time, he scrawls on "Jeon Jungkook" in messy cursive at the bottom of his paper and rushes to get his books for his morning class together. As soon as he does so he makes a dash to said class.

Imma edit the last paragraph and republish this another time.
Wow it's been a while and I'm still not editing this