My hands were warmed by the mug of freshly brewed tea I held in my hands as I gazed out the window. It was dreary inside, but the world outside my studio was vibrant and alive, buzzing with the energy of those who pursued dreams without hesitation. From where I stand, the air was heavy, thick with self-doubt and the suffocating grip of depression. My only comfort was the canvas, and I was an artist, or at least that's what I called myself. No matter how hard I tried, it seemed I would always...