I used to be an artist.
I was in love with love, the weight of a book in the palm of my hand, and the way a chi latte tastes at 2 in the morning. I stuck a pencil in the root of my ponytale, I spilled paint on my overalls, and I kept my nails short enough to shade with my fingeres when using charcoal. I felt free, my most valuable memory from back then is a blur of street lights, wind in my hair and music that sang the melodys of my soul.
Its my fault.
