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it was saturday night.

to most people, that meant parties and drinking with people you hardly knew; getting wasted with a new crowd every week. for others it meant relaxing at home, a movie playing and a cup of tea grasped within their cold hands.

for phil, however, this meant sitting on his roof, drawing furiously as he sat in a pile of crumpled papers.

he aspired to be an artist. he dreamt every night to be great, amazing even, at what he absolutely loved to do. he wished to paint realistic portraits of his favorite celebrities, or doodle perfectly clean and beautiful cartoons within the time-span of ten minutes, or have his drawings praised and prized, not pitied.

the stars were generously decorating the bland sky in an attempt to make this cold evening prettier and the moon was bright and beautiful and captivating, but phil didn't care. he had no patience in the pulchritude of the universe or the serenity of the misty grey clouds. all he wanted to do was try. try to draw properly, try to draw perfectly. because what he did just wasn't enough.

it was never enough.

so, he tried again. circle after circle, line after line, all small details adding up to one big failure. he didn't even know what he was doing.

so he gave up. he needed sleep and he knew he was hopeless.

he brushed the papers from his lap and watched them fall to the floor, the gentle breeze carrying them a touch to the left. he crawled back up to his windowsill and slowly climbed inside his house. what greeted him as he entered - which was usually pleasing - seemingly gave him a gut-feeling of sheer disappointment.

every wall in the room was covered top to bottom in magazine scraps, posters and framed artworks. he had paint splattered cutouts, van gogh cutouts, Picasso cutouts, shelves and shelves of fine china and detailed sculptures, and enough artsy quotes to last a decade.

everything he aspired to be was evident on his walls.

his floor, however, was a different story.

a pigsty of papers, pencils, rulers, paint tubes, erasers, pencil crayons, markers, you name it. anything used to create art was tragically thrown onto the floor, but he was too lazy to care. the mess was started three years ago and is a constant reminder of how talentless he saw himself, yet he curiously used that to his advantage. he usually used that clutter as motivation, something that would give him hope.

but not that night.

not the day before uni.

he trudged through the thickly coated wooden floorboards and fell onto his bed. he rested his head on the pillow and closed his eyes, and it wasn't long before his pillow was damp with tears.

they could have been tears of defeat, his room littered with ugly monstrosities he has tried to make look nice. they could have been tears of loneliness, with him having to leave his house and mum and dad behind and get a new roommate. or they could have been tears of exhaustion, as he'd been up for hours on end trying desperately to be happy with himself and his talents. but, not matter how hard he tried, he hated what he drew.

and that night, he dreamt of stardom. he dreamt of being presented at hundreds of art galleries and being applauded by his favourite artists. he dreamt of being compared to picasso, praised by vik muniz, his work being recreated by aspiring artists.

he wanted to be one of the greats. the classics. someone who would be remembered for centuries.

instead, there he lay; misery radiating off of him. a sad boy with failed dreams and a broken soul.

blank canvas - phan (discontinued)¡Lee esta historia GRATIS!