SEVENTEEN

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When I was eleven years of age, sapphire academy of arts and modern structure conducted a talent search hunt

Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.

When I was eleven years of age, sapphire academy of arts and modern structure conducted a talent search hunt. Ms. Bellmoth, my art teacher from the public primary school had submitted my drafts without a belief that I would become the one, a small town girl from jasper Alberta to be one of the few accountable of six to be selected.

When the results came in, I had locked myself up for two days in my room. Felix who probably was older, fifteen then had smuggled food and water to my safe haven. He was among the sole one other than me who wished that I would not have leave the town and the house, trading it for a boarding school in the middle of nowhere. Later he betrayed, changed his views and gave in to the ideologies of Mom and Dad.

My parents couldn't have been happier- when I cried they hugged me with an encouraging pat on back.

"It's for the best Thea" mother had ran a hand through my complicated fish braids, "You will regret not attending the school when thousands dream of it. You are gifted- and our aging lives could only disappoint you when you'll grow up without a support or funds"

Then I was too in denial- I only wanted her and my entire family to be with me. To cheer on me after I fail races. To tell me ice hockey wasn't for me, to mumble out how, me almost failing subjects were fine by them. But not them accepting that my ace lied among the world of colours and a world that I create on empty surface.

To believe that I was something more than a normal art student.

To dream that I was one of the Countries most famous artist in making.

Sapphire academy had candidates in all sorts of proficiency. They were superior in their understanding. While all I did was to let the streaks of colours speak for me. They would plan ahead- I would just let my present condition spread.

While I thought of my end product to be trash- from how least complicated it felt among the comparing exhibits. Mr. Ikeda- the Japanese skill development instructor who often kept to himself but criticized without an empathy would leave my analyzation for later.

Always for later.

He would take my paintings with him- and would return them. I was never given the report of what he thought of them- I was never graded.

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