My fascination with art began at a young age and with a dad such as mine, no talent was ever not encouraged. He went the distance as a father, I believe, and was always anxiously behind my back, watching my every move. Not something you approve of when you are sickeningly too young to appreciate love and affection. As far as he was concerned, his child prodigy was destined to produce a masterpiece one day. He made me sign my name on the lousiest of scraps I doodled every now and then. Something that caused me deep embarrassment from the strands of my hair to my very unsightly toes. In a fit of rage, I burnt all my artworks ever created or shredded them to a million little pieces, till every drop of my blood was satisfied with the glorious sight of destruction all around. Once destroyed, I am always filled with remorse the next day. I spend a great deal of my precious time wondering about my terrible mood and almost 20 years have gone by without me being in control of this darned mood that has a mind of its own. As far as my ability to create something artistic is concerned, I think I’m suffering from a severe case of clouded thinking. Life’s distractions are far too many for me to live in a world filled with colors and I’m destined to be a part of a grey, grey world.