I bought myself a box of art supplies.

The color pencils with their sharpened tips look like a harmonious wheel.

I pick up the watercolor pan. The perfection of each brick gnaws at my soul. I put it back.

The jeweled acrylic colors lie within paint tubes. I just cannot bring myself to squeeze, let alone dent their plump fullness.

I run my hands over the crayons intact in the clear covering. Why does my finger fear to blunt their sharp edges?

Overwhelmed by the color pastels, the brushes, the markers, I realize I must use them. The voice in my head mocks, “So you think you’re an artist!”

The graphite pencils are unsharpened.

“They look so perfect just the way they are,” I sigh.

My eyes take one last look to see the eraser before closing the lid.

“You can always do over,” it silently seems to convey.

I open the box wide, pick up the sharpener next to the forgiving eraser, and watch the spirals of wood coming off the pencils to slowly reveal the charcoal inspiration.