Fear. Fear is a bicycle, and when the wheels don’t turn, it falls. But without warning, it will pick itself up, dust itself off, and continue peddling.
I often try to talk to family members, friends, even a therapist, but then, one question remains in my mind, “What do I say?” I choke up, and a different topic spews out of my mouth. I hate myself for it, but it is something I can’t help.
“Is something wrong?” “Are you alright?” “How do you feel?” loved ones, and acquaintances ask me.
I proceed to say three, regretful words: “I am fine.” I am currently in a blank slate. A voice begs me to start painting, making things colorful. There is no color, at least, for my academic life.
Outside of school, I listen to music, hang out with friends, and other things. When it comes to my actual life, there is a portrait full of color, and different tastes. Music is a like red, sweet strawberry, as ripe as it can get. My friends, a blue, salty flavor, that comes from the sea. Orange represents my family, a tangerine, sweet, but at the same time, it is also sour. The colors brighten up everything about me, but at certain points, a black smudge is painted. When this happens, the fear and stress levels rise, but only temporarily. Soon, the rest of the colors blot out the dark misery, and that has started to happen with my academic drawing.