I started drawing when I was two. That’s right. My dad says I drew a circle on a wall using a chalk piece when he drew it. You can call it the first brick. As a child, I experimented with colors (kids’ colors and acrylic and watercolors) using the expensive brushes that I bought. I liked drawing on small pieces of charts. They were such strange drawings, and I surprised myself when I saw them as a young adult today. Paintings of walking woodpeckers wearing skirts and pants and having different hairstyles. A lion which looked fat enough to eat an elephant. Green mountains with yellow light over them, when I tried mixing crayon colors for the first time. And there were, also, pretty gory and scary pictures as well. In one page I wrote “Don’t see this,” drew some people using my fingers and.. oh my. One had blue and red polka dots (Drew it with ball pens), one was vomiting blood, one had very small tree branches in their stomach. Then I wrote “See this” in another page. I drew happy people, using the same fingers I used to draw the previous ones. As I saw those pictures, I could feel it, the happiness and the darkness (creepy). I just couldn’t believe I drew that.
You can say that I started drawing again, after a few years of not holding the brushes. I’m slowly trying to understand the process. Fortunately, I did place the bricks in the right places as a child. I knew where the next brick should be placed. And now I’m even more confident that I’m going to build a nice wall. A perfect wall, which doesn’t protect me from anything, but stays as my strength.