Diary entry #2 (That one hobby)

Sometimes I wonder why the things I want the most are the very things I end up walking away from. It’s not because I don’t care… in fact, I care too deeply. Maybe that’s the problem. When something matters to me, it feels fragile, like one wrong move will break it...

One of those things Art...

Art was my hobby… my safe place… the one corner of the world where I could breathe without fear. I didn’t stop because I wanted to. I stopped because life kept hurting me faster than I could heal, and somewhere in that chaos, even my colours began to fade.

It was neverrrrrr just a hobby for me. A language my soul understood when words failed. I used to lose myself in colours and lines, creating worlds that felt kinder than reality.

Art held me when people couldn’t. It healed wounds I didn’t know how to explain. I painted to remember myself… and then one day, because of the pain I was carrying, I stopped painting to survive myself.....

But still When I see colours, it feels like they’re calling my name.

When I see brushes, my hands automatically feel heavier, almost as if they remember the weight of creating the slow strokes, the unspoken thoughts, the emotions I used to pour out.

It makes my heart tighten. Because I miss that version of me, the one who wasn’t afraid to feel.

And when I see art papers, blank and waiting, I feel this quiet sadness.
The kind that whispers, “You could’ve filled this. You used to.”

There’s guilt, nostalgia, and hope all mixed together.

Sometimes I look away because the emptiness of the page reflects the emptiness I’ve been carrying.

Art was the first thing I used to love the most in the world but somewhere along the way, I let even that go.

Not because I stopped loving it......it's just.... my hands forgot how to hold beauty when everything inside me was hurting.

Because art brings up memories and an old version of me that still hurts to think about
because the world felt too heavy for my hands to hold a brush.I didn’t walk away from art because it stopped mattering. I walked away because I couldn’t handle anything at that time, even the things I loved.

But art is gentle.
It never blames me.
It waits

But seeing these things reminds me that my love for art didn’t disappear. It’s still there, waiting for me to feel ready again.
Maybe one day I’ll stop leaving the things I want the most.

Maybe one day, when the noise in my mind softens, I’ll pick up a pencil again.
Maybe the lines will be shaky, maybe the colours won’t make sense but they will be mine.

And maybe that’s how healing begins…
not by forcing myself to go back,

but by trusting that the things I truly love will always find their way back to me.

And when that day comes, I know art will still be there… quietly