I used to love drawing. It was my thing, my escape from the world. I just loved art. I remember my one and only scratch vividly. It was a rainy winter, yet the air was warm and comforting. I spent countless hours by the window, completely absorbed in it. The scene depicted an ancient temple on a hill, an angelic warrior standing over a fallen one, born from my admiration of art.
Those days were magical. Each line I drew felt like a connection to a deeper part of myself. Since then, I just don't know what happened to me. Life grew complicated, and my passion for drawing faded. Responsibilities took over, and my sketchbook gathered dust.
Yet, the memory of that rainy winter, the warmth, and the satisfaction of creating something beautiful stayed with me. As I look at my old scratches, I feel a flicker of that old passion. I was running from my depression into things I loved, which one day was art—all kinds of art. I was hiding in it from people and depression. It was my one and only thing. Now I'm just lost.
