Today, as I was looking through an old box, which is something I do on days when I'm trying to find the meaning of life. I somehow always think that old boxes with pictures and letters and memories is where it's hiding. I didn't find that little sneaky meaning, but I did stumble across these old drawings I did, when I was around the age of 12.
God, I loved drawing so much. It was my therapy. My escape. Even without knowing it, there I was in a zone, with my paper and pencil. And even if I didn't have the makings of a future Vincent Van Gogh, I didn't care. It was my love.
I got real sad. I thought, 'Why did I ever stop doing something I loved so much?' Why is it that as grown-ups we stop doing things we love? Where do they go? Why do we forget about them? I guess they go hide in boxes where you run into them looking for something else. Maybe I did end up finding a little meaning today. Something forgotten. The meaning can always be disguised, you know!
Look, I even left the last drawing half ass done.
Aggggh, so like me!