I logged into Path last night. A ghost town. I scrolled back until I found them.. the portraits I used to draw.
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| Looking at potential I decided not to keep. |
They aren't perfect, but they’re proof. Proof that I used to be someone who could create things. Looking at them now feels like looking at a stranger’s life.
Somewhere after 2014, I just.. stopped. I let it go. Now, the skill is gone. The muscle memory is dead. It’s a strange kind of grief, realizing you’ve lost the only thing that made you feel like you were "good" at something.
I want to blame life or timing, but I can’t. This was on me. I had a spark and I let it go cold. Now I’m just left with the noise of daily life and the realization that I traded a talent for a void.
The ink dried up. The hand stayed.
