I love the arts— the way dreams spill into form, how hands bring color to the silence of a canvas. I watch their imaginations bloom and I stand in awe.
I tried to follow— picked up the pen, the brush, but my line shook, trembled like doubt. “You can’t even draw a straight one,” I whispered.
But art is not perfection. It is feeling, freedom, a flame.
And I— I have a different brush.
