The slow death of the fire in the hearth

Dear Delyara, I looked at the original design layouts for Seifi tonight—the pure, one-of-one luxury jewelry pieces that were supposed to define my legacy. I remember when drawing those lines felt like a sacred act, a direct translation of my soul into physical form. But tonight, the sketches looked like the work of a completely different person. I am so bone-weary from the endless, exhausting grind of my night watch that my creative fire has dwindled to a heap of cold ash. I spend my nights protecting other people’s physical parameters, while the beautiful, exclusive world I wanted to build for myself is left to rot in an unvisited folder. It is a terrifying thing to look into the mirror and realize that the practical demands of survival are slowly, quietly suffocating the artist you swore you would never abandon.