Tears

 It looks wonderful up there. Hanging beside other works of art, it looks wonderful up there.

A tap on my shoulder; I turn around. "That is a beautiful painting!", exclaims the guest. She is very enthusiastic about the work and very profuse with her compliments. I thank her. I can't stand there any more. As I navigate around the gallery, I see so many other paintings. One particular piece arrests me. I stand in front of it and I can not move. I look deep into the picture. The weave of the color and the depth of the brush strokes are all amazing. I am breathless. 

I immediately turn around and search for mine. It looks amateur and childish. A splotch of colors. I am disgusted by it. I am so angry at myself - I grind my teeth. I am desperate to pull it down, rip it apart. What arrogance did I have displaying it here? What talent did I have? How could I revel in this ability?

I run out of the gallery crying - hot tears spilling on my cheeks. I can almost feel the blood in my lips from squeezing them hard. I lean against the cold stone wall - their iciness provides solace to my fevered body. He comes up to me. "If you feel angry, channel it. If you feel inadequate, get better. If you feel content, that is your triumph. You are allowed to feel all this. You are not an impostor. Learn to work through it." I take his cigarette and let the tears flow; I will get better.