Snippets and Stories: (R) Mistaken

Yet another blunder. He sneered at the charcoal smudged image. Give up while you're ahead why don't you? Wasting such fine materials to create utter garbage.

There was no denying the pathetic attempt as anything more than a waste of precious materials and Time. It was a mess, smudgy, odd shadows, misshapen forms.

Hideous​, ugly, disappointing, frustrating. All of them and more.

All there was to show for my efforts was a worn out hand coated thickly with charcoal.

I let that fall to my side as I took it in. Still, it was a first step. These speed runs that our professor had us making were pitiful at best.

The only thing that could be done was to learn and get better.

But I was never able to deceive myself, and perhaps it is because of that, that I so suffered.

Talent was something that others had. Certainly, it takes dedication, practice, and whatnot, to hone one's skill, but I knew I was no competition even then. I never was.

Inside something believed in the potential, but there was something else. Oppressive as it was, or perhaps it was just life's toll.

They learned it quickly, they learned it well.

Artistic talent was something that I worked for, but never had. All of my skill, I obtained through practice, and it lacked the creative expression and character that so many others had.

Not long has my presence been, but it would be insult to say that I couldn't recognize talent when I saw it, and I saw none in mine self.

Sure, one could practice, but not everyone succeeds.

That's just the way of life. Not every comic makes the frontlines, not everyone can be amazing.

"I'm not afraid to make mistakes, because everything I do, is a mistake."

He stops whatever nonsense he is doing. Perhaps surprised by my candor.

"If I'm just going to mess up, then at least I tried."

Ah, but inside, you wonder why you tried at all.

Indeed.

"I will manage, just as I've always had."

So full of hope, and so full of emptiness.

"Has it ever been any different?"

The silence I take for an answer, and when I had thought to myself that he had gone, he replied.

Once.

I didn't ask for when that "once" was, for I needed not to hear what I already knew. Just as I didn't need to hear the plastic dollar-store encouragements that were oft passed out.

Few cared to know enough to be genuine in their words, and I cared less for those who were of falsities.

But are you not the same? You attempt to be what you are not. You have not even the abilities to achieve what is obtained through practice, not talent.

"No Neskyii, I am not. Because I believed, and still believe, that I can. I am not just doing the motions to do them."

A brave face, and a weak Heart. You are ill-suited for this path. A path you will only fail.

"Probably."

People stare as I pass and a snide voice wants to ask, "What are you staring at?"

But another voice, snider still says, "I don't care enough about them to want to know."

Was it my clothes? I had little fashion sense. Maybe the ribbon headband was too much at my age.

Or maybe it was the enormous drawing pad in one hand, duffel bag in the other, and overweight backpack.

Maybe there was something on my face.

Who knows. I didn't.