I get an idea. I take my old sketchbook and a pencil, sit down on an empty table, and opened an empty page.

In my head, I can visualize the idea to an extent. I can imagine the feeling it gives, and I can even plan how I would draw it.

I'm not entirely sure what happens upon seeing that empty page. I'm not so in touch with my emotions that I can put into certain words what exactly I feel, but I have heard of the phenomenon. The empty page sits there, ready to receive my imagination.

But my imagination is not paper. It is intangible, formless; it is not painted on, it simply receives whatever I will. It is not compatible with this page that is in front of me.

I do not know how to translate my imagination into a physical medium. "How in the world am I supposed to even start," I ponder. Long enough do I ponder that the question changes to "What did I even want to draw?"

Grasping the quickly dissipating threads of thought, I draw my first line, and the feeling of helplessness strengthens. This feels wrong. This should not be here. I must erase it. I did not want this. I cannot do this!

The next marks start appearing quickly. An onlooker would have probably thought me confident, but I know that I was panicking.

There were so many questions: "What does an eye even look like?" "How big are pupils?" "How do I apply texture to these teeth?" "How do I make this look less flat?" Questions that would only receive silence.

So clear was the image in my mind, but the white paper easily shatters the memory. I scribbled, quickly, in hopes that something would happen, to no avail. "My imagination will not be realized," I thought, and so the drawings were finished.