I always wished to do something that looked effortless and inspired. Like playing the piano or violin Those talents, to me, always seemed so outwardly emotive, more so than writing or typing or playing the flute. Your hands are involved with the details, while your mind wanders and spreads with the music. Perhaps that’s just the romantic in me.
Of all the things I ever wished to be able to do, I’ve never wanted to paint. Oh, I considered it, once. I thought it might be interesting, in the same way that I think it might be nice to one day go to Vegas, plant a tree, or ride on a train. The desire was there, but very, very faint. I remember thinking that painting would be as easy as writing. I held the brush like a pen, and attempted what I thought would turn out a bold, steady stroke. The bristles bent, and smeared cheap craft paint across the paper.
For the longest time, I had no say over my life. When I was young, my mother decided things. I may have chosen what to read, wear, and write, but my steps followed only hers. I did not stray from her course. Childhood did not fade: after I grew up, it was much the same way, only now life formed my actions. I let others lead me how they wished. I smiled when they asked, spoke when they said. I fashioned no will of my own.
Was I scared? Was I said? I ask these things, but I know not to answer. It’s better, I’ve learned, to let it be faceless. People say the scariest things are those with no meaning, no purpose, and no name. This is not true. The scariest of all is the fear with a name, for when you name something, you ultimately acknowledge it. You can no longer pretend it doesn’t exist.