Upon lazily lounging on the sofa with an Alice Walker novel at hand, a thought clouded my mind I didn’t understand the first three sentences. “I can’t stay like this forever,” I mumbled to myself. Bracing the uncertainty ahead, I searched for my pencil, eraser, ruler, pens, brushes, and a bottle of ink at various places I never imagined they were actually there (I planned of making a pen and ink A3 piece). The urge to revive my embarrassing talent in visual arts, or whatever is left from it, was so stimulating that afternoon (embarrassing because I didn’t get anything to be proud of from this talent other than filling our house with framed works only the family ghosts appreciate). As I was starting my sketch, my mind went suddenly blank that I gained nothing more but a piece of paper being scrawled with already-mysterious lines only my fickle and elusive inspiration can comprehend. I stowed my materials back into their places and picked up the Walker book. What a waste!
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