It had been years. My creative self, hidden, ignored and dusted, solemnly approached, wandered from one thought to another. Waited in anticipation to be touched upon. Yet, here I laid, disillusioned, content with the course my life was embarking upon. Fooling myself with the belief that this was the focused me, aiming to reach for the skies.
Cometh summer, and I entered the university. A jolly good, breezy introvert drafted to a different city. Yet, a gnawing feeling continued filling the pit of my stomach. The feeling of emptiness, something amiss. A feeling of something I was supposed to be doing, not sure of what it was.
One month to another, hundred of books and a notebook full of doodles later. I remained illusioned, ignorant of the spark that remained absent.