in a daze amongst the first winter haze

(above, what Hamlet would have uttered in a deep philosophical voice, had he lived in our times)

(bellow, an essay on what was once achievable, now a distant childhood dream)

when I was younger- I mean like nine years old, I wanted to be a painter. I'm not sure if this was the sad part, but I think I wanted to be a painter because of the escapism. when I drew it was like I could be anyone, the canvas could turn into anything. I believed all the cliched lines about being an artist and what it involved. I felt pretty invincible. then I turned twelve and realized I couldn't draw for shit. the end.