Creating a Grade 6 art was like trying to compose a symphony on a broken piano in the middle of a relentless hurricane. The wind of logic and precision battered you from every side, demanding method and technique, while the howling storm of raw, unbridled creativity threatened to tear your careful plans to shreds. It wasn't a matter of cold equations or tidy scribbles on parchment—though those had their place. No, it demanded something more elusive.
Imagination.
Not just the dreamy, whimsical kind, though that played its part. This was imagination harnessed by discipline, shaped by intent, and fueled by raw emotion. It wasn't enough to dream; you had to believe in that dream—feel it coil around your identity until it became inseparable from who you were, until its shape and form were yours, not borrowed from someone else's story.
That was where I was hopelessly stuck.
