An artist died.

She outshined a lot  of her fellow classmates, her work resonating that realism and passion without much effort and yet the effort was there, each hurried line, the quick strokes of the brushes. 

She loved what she did, creating art…

Art that was different, less systematic than her classmates, art that flowed freely and created pieces that were vastly different than the other students. And she didn't have to try all that much. She really didn't. She was born for this, for the paints, the pens, the graphite. And the scribbling on paper, coupled with the sweeping  of a brush across the canvas. This was her world.

Until it wasn't.

Until she was told there was no emotion in her work, that it didn't follow the instructions like it should have and there wasn't enough thought about the pieces she did. There wasn't thought within the personal writing she added to her collage. There wasn't thought when she methodically put and F and a U on the next two smaller collages in aggravation at the teacher's audacity.

There wasn't thought when she created fantastical flowers for her portfolio.

Until she was wasting her time catering to the students in a class below hers and could not proceed with her passions and desires for her creation.

Until her portfolio was due and it was an utter failure. The art she had given so much passion was a c average at best. They wanted her to use the work she hated the most. Ones that were not a true representation of her and what she could do. Ones that were what the teacher wanted her to submit because it'll look better on him and his rating if we pass the portfolio.

The same teacher that was working on the same tusked woman surrealist piece since the first day of classes. The same teacher that showed no growth within his work as he berated hers.

Boring.

There was no way to please the teacher anymore and the frustration built up in her body came in a flood of

Words.

Words. Now she was alive!

The rage rushed forth, a fury that enveloped her being. If she wasn't good enough she'd make the world see she was.

And maybe this wasn't her death after all but a rebirth into what she was meant to be!

How exhilarating to put feelings and meanings into words and stories. They began as poetry, the simple ekphrastic moments easily capturing the emotions within her.

She had but dabbled before in writing, keeping her creative expression as mostly visual art forms, where people could judge the emotions displayed on the canvas.

But now…now there were ambiguities to explore and stories to be written. There was the simple things to write about, roses were no longer just the juxtaposing red and green on the paper but instead they meant eternal love when referenced. If only fleeting.

So the words replaced images and they became her language.

It felt good. So good to have a voice again, to express without limitations and to share what she had to say.

The words flowed from her mind, weaving characters into plots, some failed and others were finished, and some have not made it to the page yet but are waiting.

An artist died, but a writer was born.