Painting used to be the best way to let my mind run free. To escape:
painting, drawing, a fucking marker was heaven to me. It was my own
world and my own only.
But as time pass by, it
gets to be more of a struggle than an escape. Noticing how my inability
to paint is getting worst and worst day by day, the struggle to keep
going falls down into the angry path. I do notice my bigger regret as I
grow old, and is my career decision. I decided not no be an Illustrator.
It was playing it safe: non using my only escape as my way to survive, I
could never do that to myself. Unfortunately it is also one of only
passions in life and totally miscarried it along the way for "major"
purposes.
Reality is, I do blame this decision entirely to my
parents. It wasn't about playing it safe, it was about them playing it
safe for me. They didn't give me much of a decision about it, as I said I
intended to to be an illustrator they just said no and I obeyed.
That's
the issue, I blame them for taking a decision for me. When in reality
it was me not taking my own decisions and standing up for myself,
standing for my passion.
For my own sanity I still blame them
and still regret (as my own regret) not following my own passion. But
one thing is for sure: Painting is still my only escape. And I'm glad I still got this. For as long as I got.
