BOP 7: All That We Hope to Be

There is so much to say, and so little Time with which to say it.

It's difficult to put it down, these troublesome thoughts.

The futility of it, the despair that lingers.

When the instrument lays in hand, yet nothing comes to.

Short while back did I speak with my elder sibling, and asked her.

With all her talent, with all her ability, her innate inclination towards color and the stylish fashion sense that came so naturally to her.

Why, with all her talent, did she never out them to use.

"Oh, I'm not really that good."

She thanked me for the praise, and never more clearly, were the hollow cavities within my chest so clearly felt.

What then, did I work for. Years upon years, I could still barely draw, so far behind was I compared to her skill.

She had proven a formidable shadow I could never run beyond, forever enshrouded.

To hear it then, was as great a hurt as I could have received from her then.

She told me I could do it, encouragement besides, yet it was not confidence that was instilled within me, but a resentment deep.

For her wondrous gift she would never work upon.

For my hands that I could not steady.

For my art so undeveloped next to her's, which I felt would never catch up to her's.

It was frustrating, enough so that even now, nothing comes to me.

I could never surpass her. Never.

And she tells me that all of her talent, is nothing.

What am I working towards. I can feel it in my hand as it grips the pen.

I can't do it.

I have believed for so long that if I just kept trying, kept practicing,  kept learning, maybe one day, I would. But when faced with the true skill and talent of one as practiced as my Sister, to hear from her that it was nothing, burned me deep.

I still keep trying.

But it feels like it wont work.

I'm not sure what to think. Yet the fact that I'm still here must mean that  I still dream. Even if the selfsame doubt holds my pen still, and my mind blank.