"Be happy that you passed", she would say. "This is what most people aim for the first time".

But you don't feel happy. You never do. Unlike the others, who no doubt take it all with a grain of salt, you take it all personally, like each scrawled comment is a mortal wound to your ability. The wounds have increased during the past two years as you no longer have the confidence left to even give the nod and leave the room of judgement.

After the room comes the walk, full of loneliness and self-pity. You remember the process and what you could have done to make it all right. But you can't remember anything. There are only memories of what didn't make the cut, of what didn't please her. Nothing ever pleases her. She represents your greatest obstacle.

That night you cannot even look at your computer. You feel turned off, sickened even. How could you ever write again? Why should you write when you know that she doesn't understand it? Maybe nobody does.

You sit, pen in hand, trying to draw something that is irrelevant to any set task. You must distract yourself because of your sudden distaste for what you love. Your head feels heavy...too many intense thoughts.

The glitter of the pen's ink stains your face. You don't mind...it's only glitter. Then the mind wanders, leaves the thoughts of the mark behind and drifts to a place of wanton desires.

Memories flash by and you find it hard to keep track of them all. You remember that you hated to write as a child. You see your cousin forcing you to write a two hundred word journal entry. She pokes and prods you in the back, in stark contrast to the beauty of the setting sun over the country hills. You finish as the first mosquito devours your hand.

You can't remember why you started to like writing, or why you felt compelled to say that you enjoyed studying it. All you ever wanted was to fit in, to have you place. Writing seemed the coolest option...you can’t draw anyway.

And as these memories pass you by, you become less aware of the negatives and the marks. You forget to ask yourself why they don't get it, why they never deem it worthy. You forget all, even the fact that you hate writing anything by hand.

And as you remember to forget, your hand sweeps across the page, leaving a trail of glittered purple ink. The ink forms shapes, words and sentences. On this page there are no rules, no boundaries, no 'criteria' ...only your hand and the purple ink.

You begin to write nothing, anything...because you don't feel any more.

When all is done, you put down the pen and lift your head to gaze upon the diatribe.

And then you laugh...

...because you wrote this.