A Good Artist

With the screen being the only light illuminating the room, the sense of space, time became abstract. Piercing directly into the eyes. Hand shaking, grinding teeth, eyes and back hurting holding his stylus pen, and with that came thousands upon thousands of circles.

“I'm trying.”

All that can be heard is the sound of the pen sliding over and over across the screen. Once the entire canvas has been filled with circles to the point where the scene becomes completely black, a new canvas is made.

“I don't understand what I'm doing wrong. I've been practicing for hours. I'll never be a good artist.”

The pen drawing over, over, over, across the screen, lifting only to draw another circle, circle, circle.

Not fully round.

Not perfect.

Wrong.

Not fully round.

Not perfect.

Wrong.

Things just had to be done enough times, and then it would happen. The recognition, the admiration. It would be fulfilled. The only thing needed was simply doing something enough times.

Eventually, the sound of the computer fans became inaudible. Thoughts grew quieter. Time wasn’t a factor. Being awake and being asleep become indistinguishable. Body and mind were becoming weaker. 

The connection between pen and hand felt so disconnected that it seemed impossible the same person drawing the circles was the one seeing them.

Frustration and bitterness took over, becoming the primary drivers to continue this quest. The plan was laid down, if this was how it had to be, then there was no other way. This was simply the journey.

Not fully round.

Not perfect.

Wrong.

Not fully round.

Not perfect.

Wrong.

“I work hard. I work so hard! I deserve this! How come people post lazy, worthless garbage and get attention while I'm ignored? Don't they see how hard I work? How much I've sacrificed? Why does nobody care about what I do? What am I doing wrong? I'm trying so hard. I just need to get it right once, then I can really begin.”

The pen continuously hit the screen, over and over and over. Trying different pen pressures subtly, but not much, not differently. It was all the same rhythm, the same motion again and again. Any changes happened only by accident, it was all inherent talent. All of it. It was all unfair. All of it. Everything.

After hours, if not days, months, or years. It happened. The perfect circle was drawn. 

The joy couldn't be described. Tears were either rolling down from celebration or absolute exhaustion. Although there it was, the perfect circle. Now came time to place a line inside to mark where the eyes would be. The line came out crooked. 

So it was back to drawing the circle again. A new canvas was made, and once more the shaking hand returned to drawing the same circle across the surface. Again, again and again.

Not fully round.

Not perfect.

Wrong.

Not fully round.

Not perfect.

Wrong.

Once more there was a perfect circle. What came next couldn’t be imagined, couldn’t be conceived. The circle is here. Where else could you go? Fully round, completely perfect, right, yet somehow all of this wasn't.