JUST MY TYPE

examinations and concentrations (2)

"write a short essay about a strong feeling."  the title glared at you through that sheet of paper. a strong feeling? sure, in your life you've had many. disappointment and failure were no new terms to you. and with that, you started to write.

jealousy
"in kindergarten, i was a good artist- so they called me. the best in the kindergarten. talented in artistry, with so much creativity and emotion behind my artworks. i never quite agreed with them- i thought this boy was a much better artist than me. his art had so much tone, with paler colours but strong colour contrasts. his art always stood out to me- the perspective in his artworks was such a wonder to me how he did it. 

and even more- the boy was good at everything else too. music, art, studies- name anything and he'd do well in it. i never quite envied him. i always thought he was awe-inspiring and surely gifted. i would always look at him, surprised, when he ate alone at lunch. i was a one-trick pony, being only good at art. why was it that people surrounded me and not him? 

learning others thought of him as a goody-two-shoes, i nearly choked on my food that day. i couldn't understand why anyone would harbour negative emotions towards him- i would have thought everyone would adore him the way i did. 

i had this art teacher. she was incredible at art, her strokes skilful and bold. never quite smiling, she was still a kind teacher. yet i couldn't ignore how her face hardened in the slightest seeing that boy. how her lips would press together into a thin line whenever i mentioned his name enthusiastically. i never quite knew what they had between them, but i knew better than to ask. her reactions to him reminded me of my father. 

my father strived for perfection and nothing less. i couldn't express how anger flared up in him when i brought him art pieces, which almost always ended as scattered shreds of ripped paper on the floor. after some time, i stopped giving him my art pieces. i didn't want to let all my hard work find their new home in a trash can. hence, i gifted them to my art teacher. i gave them all to her, in hopes my artwork wouldn't be thrown away like it was with my father. he was the kind of person to throw wine bottles as if they were darts, and perhaps the blood under my skin was the target; showing wonderful splatters of red as if they were the red dot in the centre of a target board. though i must admit- the red on me was in a far greater volume than the puny dot on the dart board. maybe it made me an easier target. 

he was of my own blood. i should have felt warm with him, yet all i felt was a chilling cold. blood was warm- i could tell from the many times blood dripped onto my arms. sometimes, i would take out my swiss army knife and saw away at my skin- a barrier. in the end, a reddish heart would be formed on my skin, albeit with ragged edges. it hurt, it did, but love hurts, no? at the time, the blood was warm. i couldn't help but feel dejected. why was it that a mere heart that was crafted by nothing by blood was warmer than my own?

once, in kindergarten, i had to dance with him. he was a skilful dancer, and i was purely clumsy. his scowl was a regular occurrence on his face when he met me. to this day, it is still a mystery to me why he had such negative feelings towards me. i didn't expect him to like me, but how he was acting like i was his worst enemy puzzled me.  

yet as the days went by, i began to hate him too. hate him for being good at academics- maybe then, my heart would have been warmer. maybe then, i'd have a dad and not a father. perhaps then my father would have accepted me as human. 

that was in kindergarten. now, I'm in high school. i am more responsible, more studious, and no longer burdened by my father. that is freedom for me. then, i see him again. he's popular, unlike before. people surround him. i feel happy for him. yet when i gaze at the heart carving on the underside of my wrist, i can't. 

as terrible of a person i am, I'm still jealous of him, even when our roles have been switched. i'm jealous of his bravery to live, his courage to voice out his opinions and strike down anyone who opposes him. 

no matter whether I'm in high school or kindergarten, i'm still a jealous person who cant appreciate what she has."