Ruined

I will never forget the madness running through my head as I willingly ruined a piece of artwork that I had been trying to finish for weeks. I suppose my Drawing II course in high school encouraged me to take more risks at the end of it all. In this class, I learned to be fearless. I found a name for myself. I found my style and it was quite dangerous.

To this date, I have tried to remain as bold as the thick dark strokes that would earn me a failing grade. What did I really have to lose? Before I decided to destroy all that I had put into this obnoxious work of art, I was slated at a step above a failing grade. I became senseless. I furiously rushed back to my desk and grabbed the ugliest damn craypod I could find. Craypods would only simmer my sanity through the duration of this project as a terrible, oily mound of pastel, only to be worked to perfection with my fingertips. Nonetheless, I proceeded with my damage to the piece.

My trash was finally prepared for grading and then the dumpster. I approached my instructor, and his nearly retired eyes gazed at me in excitement to see how I had touched up my lovely catastrophe. To my surprise, he appreciated what I had done. While it was bold, I had added depth. And while it was dark, it accented the lighter shades within my piece. This presumed madness was a success.

Following this interesting case, I was bolder in the classroom. I brewed bolder humor, I bore bolder clothes, I flaunted a bigger smile, and wore brighter soles. I held my shoulders higher. I stood my ground with ease. I excited others for being uncommon. I took some risks for the tease. I took more chances so I could win. While I ruined things, I added my own spin. For this, I was enthusiastic.