Virtuoso's Vice

Ambling into class

my body swayed

like a tilting pen

seeking to trace 

a plagiarised sketch.

The precision of pens

their stinging summits gushing with black ichor

ink the pencil lines,

an array of copied strokes

far too complex to be of my own design.

I await my fix.

“Hey, did you draw that?”

Dopamine engulfs my brain.

“That’s so good!”

Serotonin floods my body.

“You could be a professional!”

Endorphins drown my mind.

I scroll

scouring for art to copy.

Hours of dedication

to a facade of skill.

Hand trembling

withdrawal from the ever-decreasing

returns of undeserved validation.

Thoughts of worthlessness

paint my mind a dark shade of blue

shamefully lathered on a cracking canvas

I need my next fix.

Sauntering into class

the air lays still

primed for staining.

Leg stippling the ground

anxiety has replaced

any tinge of satisfaction.

Malicious maroon

blots my gloomy thinking.

Ping

I open my laptop

revealing a reproachful message:

<Hey, do you copy art?>

Panic

in shades of violent vermillion

and cataclysmic cardinal red

begins to overcome me.

Eyes swelling with silver tears of despair

Lips a pale sepia gasping for a reprieve

Hands anguishedly grasping my navy shorts

I run.

I escape towards the restroom

my trail bespeckled by

a frenzy of colors

an amalgamation of 

shame, false pride, guilt

all asking the same question:

Why?

The adrenaline of the moment

tapered off

allowing more subtle tones of regret

to pop out.

Isolated in a bathroom stall

through sniffles and 

bouts of bawling

I begin to ponder.

Art is

a fickle concept.

Ebbing and flowing like watercolor,

ever-evolving hues mixed upon a palette.

Art gave meaning to my life;

the infusion of vibrant pigments into the bloodstream

a sort of life-changing ecstasy.

Each brushstroke

observed by an audience

of peers, friends, family

eager to commend your work.

That kind of praise

and its symptom of self-confidence

a high not easily replicated.

Hooked on it,

that false validation colored

my world

in gaudy tints of cheap gold

worthless in reality.

No longer.

The cheap thrill of validation

need not guide my life.

Gathering myself

I exit the restroom.

The hallway seems dimmer

a muted monochromatic color scheme.

No celebratory colors

awarded by others.

No vibrant veneer

of success and skill.

Just me.