An Artist’s Eye and Stolen Happiness

They used to think I would be an artist.

Who?

Everyone.

I have always had a somewhat odd view of the world,

A stange belief in magic,

And a strange knowledge of things,

I had no right to know.

I grew up too fast,

And was believed to be older than my young age.

A horrible child,

With a wonderous view of the world.

Painting,

Coloring,

Writing stories.

Everyone thought I would be an artist.

Even I did.

I wasn't exactly a carefree child,

But I loved beautiful things,

And I had beautiful ideas.

Dancing everywhere,

Loving to sing,

Constantly doing some sort of art.

I have a creative mind.

But I was scared to dance,

Because I feared how I might be judged.

I sang only one song,

For many years.

Bring me to life.

I felt it was an accurate description of the feeling of the world.

My mind is creative,

But my body doesn't remember how to be that way.

I say I'm bad at drawing,

And I am.

But there was a time,

When I was actually decent at it.

A time when I was able to accurately display my view of the world.

I lost that part of me when I went to school.

I never felt welcomed.

I actually can't tell much of the few years after that.

Just some vague memories.

Some pain.

Some things stolen,

That I might never get back.

I keep trying to regain that part of myself.

I'm trying so hard.

But it isn't working.

Some part of me still believes I should be an artist,

I kind of am,

I guess.

I write.

But it took me years to get to a place,

Where I actually could.

And it's not the same.

It's only a piece of what I lost.

And I'm afraid.

I want that part of myself back.

And I'm not sure that's possible.

Everyone used to think I would be an artist.

My mother is scarily creative.

I used to be.

But I don't think I am anymore.

I don't think I will get that part of me back.

And that's hard.

It makes me feel like crying.

And if anyone ever asked me,

If it was possible to lose yourself so much,

You actually forget how to do the only things,

That once made you happy,

I would say,

"Yes. Gods, yes."

And then,

I would get quiet.

And I would feel like crying.

I might manage it.

Art...

Used to be...

Everything...

To me.

I didn't know what I would do without it.

But now,

I am without it.

And I don't know what I have done.

I think,

Maybe,

I am a bit lost.

But I can't do it.

I can't get that part of myself back.

I used to think I would be an artist.

For a time I was.

That part of me has been stolen.

But I still feel like I should be that person.

But I can't.

Because I lost that part of myself.

And I don't think I can get it back.