Despite being much happier now than I was younger, there are some things that I envy about my younger self from the past. One of these key things was how I was able to rely on, and express myself through drawing, writing, and whatever other mediums possible. I found peace in painting, and it was more than enough. It calmed my soul, and whatever troubles plaguing me would steadily dissolve into something much more approachable. If I had to really say, being able to draw helped me a lot through my depression and it did so many things for me then...that I wished it still had the same effect now. Now I can only pick up a pencil to copy something, which is just as artistic in many ways, but also...in my opinion, a strangely removed experience. It is almost grows with a business-like quality for me. Enough pleasantness in which I generally like what I'm doing, but...given the choice of how I would spend my free-time, I'd much rather spend it doing something else.
"I have a pen and paper to keep me company."
Those are the words of my younger self, quite a few years ago. How...depressingly nostalgic, as I recall saying this to a dear friend who tried to reach out to me. I truly believed those words then, and when I spoke them then, they were true. Indeed, they were true. But unfortunately, years later, I am now eating my own words because the pen and paper are not enough. And I sit here and struggle, trying to grasp and fit into the old skin of my past, hoping to get the same feeling of beautiful catharsis.
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