The boy sat and scribbled and felt a joy inside him.

He played and experimented with the colors and lines,

and knew not of the world or judgment or fear.

And maybe, as is said, he had talent or something akin to it.

Perhaps he was average.

But on the carpet, without perspective or worry,

the child was content and loved his life without need or a care.

And then, someone said he had a talent,

giving birth to expectation, a burden yoked to his back.

And the scribbles had to be something,

and the scribbles of others were better than his,

and the boy lost the fun of color and lines amid the throng of demands.

Eventually, while still young, he set down his colors and gave up scribbling,

to be a man.

And the young one became a man, and the man an older man,

and now scribbles and lines were only meant to be hobbies.

But not this man.

Not this older man with greying hair and cheap drug-store glasses.

He decided to go back to scribbling, and fun,

and all the joy lost many years ago.