The Bitter Grief of Looking at the Hardened, Dusty Brushes of a Forgotten Life

Dear Delyara, I found my old portfolio case under the spare bed while looking for an extra blanket tonight. I pulled out a jar of acrylic brushes I haven't unrolled in seven years. The bristles are stiff, caked with dried blue paint from an unfinished canvas I abandoned when life got "busy." I touched them, and I felt a wave of intense, hollow grief that felt like a physical bereavement. I used to think I had something important to say through color. Now, I am a person who handles logistical schedules, files expenses, and worries about interest rates. I have systematically murdered the artist in me for the sake of survival, and the exchange feels like an absolute tragedy.