05/07/2023
My Life Drawn on the Canvas
I once lived my life as an artist, making simple things extraordinary, giving hope for something invaluable before turning it into a treasure with lifetime love and care, and giving life to others while living the worst life in reality. I was born to be creative, exploring my endless and bold imagination. I do, and I always set a standard, as I strongly believe that everyone could be hardworking and always put in an effort to achieve common goals in different strategies and beliefs, but something is not for sure: the assurance of them, giving back the love and care you always give to them, that is the very sad part of being so kind and selfless.
The last fifteen years of my life were spent drawing patterns, curves, and sketches, which are classified as a scratch imaginative transpose creation. Living those years of my life was a blueprint for my next five years unto the last count. The struggle is real; I need to put in my greatest effort and give my best for every action and wise decision I had to make, and choices that I needed to make to be still on the right track.
For the next 6 years after my childhood, my decision making become wiser, but, when these days came into my life, I started painting colorful, aesthetic and brilliant painting, which others applaud and given me enthusiastic feedback but something is missing as when my paint brush, got missing and my paintings just stuck on my mind and soul, as living the next 2 years when my family doesn't show admiration, fate and courage, that is the time I see the beauty of not just fine paintings of animals, nature, self portrait and so much more to frame in my canvas but also making just lines and unrecognizable color patterns, and that day when a friend given me a brand new paint brush where I started painting abstract, my rebellion days come into reality, vicious and unhealthy lifestyle began to shrink me in to the hole of desperation and uncertainty. I keep doing it because I believe no one can ever dictate what I'm doing or what things really matter to me; no one can understand the circumstances in my life; it's just me, myself, and I.
For the next few years and until this day, I made my life so meaningful that I could not just paint a fine portrait but also make art from the soul of sorrow, pain, and rebellion. To others, that would not be acceptable and coherent, but for me, this is who I am; I cannot ever fake my personality and just be me as a person who lives his life more than riding on a roller coaster ride. Exceptions have never been listed and put into record on my vocabulary. When I hate you, you may come near to me, but my door is closed for any business you want to offer me. I'm grateful to even have survived my 23 years of existence in this world. I had a very thoughtful and truthful life. For my family, it would be admiration; for my friends, it would serve as memory and part of learning; and for my colleagues, it would just be a clap and still bashing and stabbing while hugging each other. My story will never end, as long as there is a paint brush and I can make more beauty and transcendent creation beyond the horizon.
