Being Independent

My mom complains that I don't send enough money to her.

My father complains that I don't spend enough time with the family. 

I groan and lean forward, the ledge slipping against my soft hoodie, as I stared at the scurrying people and put my phone on silent.

I remember, five years ago, when I got into the college of my parents' dream and all I had felt was nothing. All the tears, sweat and energy I had put into studying day and night, it seemed like a waste. I wasn't proud, I was--empty. 

And it felt so demanding, a black and white life where there was no paint to give it color.

Monochromatic

That's when I started drawing in my college, it was one sunset on a Friday night, with violet velvet impinging on coal black misty lines, a hue of orange deeper than fire billowed through the sky, streaks and tints of crimson red dropped like carefully drawn blood. My heart was beating, my fingers trembling, I had this intense urge to pull out my pen and start scribbling on the couch.

It was harmless sketches at first, to drown out stress from assignments, internships, and my mother's increasing demands for a high paying salary.

I loathed their whining.

My pencil and the paper were the only means to draw a bridge between worlds, create my own ones with magic and splendor. It grew from relaxing, to passion, to torture.

Something I couldn't live without.

I lay awake in the night, listening to podcasts, soaking up everything related to art, buying everything related to art with my hard earned money.

It seemed as if I had re entered my college preparation days, but I preened in it then, it was rewarding.

It made me content.

So I became an artist, slowly building wings, growing.

I am still growing, perhaps not satisfactory to some people.

But I don't regret it.