For as long as I can remember, I’ve always had a fondness for the arts.
My earliest memories consist of me wrapping little fingers around thick crayons consisting of less than 5 colors, and the sound of a pencil moving back and forth across crisp paper.
When I was young, I wanted to be an animator. Having fallen in love with the sparkles and dreamlike things that Disney promised, I found myself enamored by simple yet charming characters and moral messages.
Whenever I walked out of a theatre, my mind felt cleansed and such passion swelled in me that I’d be kicking my feet in the car all the way home, dying to get hold of a piece of paper and spill my ideas onto it.
This seemingly immutable spirit, unfortunately, was quickly quelled after reading about Van Gogh. Although he was merely the start to the uncovering of many prominent authors who lived terrible lives and became famous after their tragic deaths, to this day, his unfortunate demise wanders around my head.
As any child with giant fantasies and a fresh mind with no awareness of reality, I had dreamed of fame and the luscious amounts of money that would follow in its wake(really quite simple-minded).
However, upon perusing various suicidal artists with barely enough to go by, my early dreams were crushed, replaced by a need(brought on by myself) to find a better interest.
Afterward, I seemed to have gaslighted myself into thinking that I enjoyed science as when browsing through older records, I continuously found myself in a white gown holding a vile with green bubbling liquid in it.
When I grew older, adults and friends alike told me that it was realistically hard to maintain a life pursuing art. I was quite aware of this fact by then but still, I continuously found myself sketching drawings into corners of assignment papers and scribbling on whiteboards.
Therefore, I decided that I would find a job that could satisfy both my love for drawing and realistic problems such as earning enough money.
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