The Canvas

And as I walked down the street, it was dark, and the darkness filled my eyes, burderened my soul and killed my strength. I had to urge, to put my mind to work, and find a way out of this life that I never agreed on living.

When I was young, I bought myself a canvas. A blank, clear canvas, with no color stains on it. Not a single sign of interference. It was all mine to draw, to create from the very beginning. But from the very beginning, while I was still trying to figure out what to draw, I had instructors, tutors, people I never knew telling me what to draw. They didn't focus much on the content, but on the techniques. I never liked techniques. I am a lover of impulse, of spontaneity. I like using my heart, the only organ I need to be alive. What would art be, had I ripped my heart out and used cold logic? But, no. I was wrong. So they said. They told me I had to draw straight lines, not curved ones. Not a single drop of blue should be found out of these lines. I was to be persecuted and rebuked had I made a single, impulsive mistake. I had to be fully prepared, with carriages of knowledge in my head, with a notion of perfection without having experienced a single moment of mistakeness. I had to be infallible without stumbling, falling and getting back again. How could I be perfect? They all say perfection does not exist, but we all must strive to gain it. But how? How can you gain something that doesn't exist? I had questions. But all people ever did was moving my hand on the canvas and showing me how to do the perfect without having encountered the imperfect. 

Now I have a perfect, according to the general standards, canvas, but an imperfect dazzle and confusion.
Thus, whenever I walk down the street where the canvas store is located, I wonder, why did I let people paint the canvas? Why did I never release my hand from theirs? Why did I never try to be indepedent and let it shine?