What I am envious of.

You're thinking, "Oh, she wants to lose weight/ be skinny/ perfect body/ perfect teeth/ perfect hair/ perfect face/ perfect legs/ good grades/ be rich."
Superficially, yes, of course I'd like that, I'd like all of that very much.

Now this part, is the part where all the snotty little know-it-alls are going to be like, "Pfffft, now she's going to say that she don't need looks nor riches, she just wants to be happy, like those stupid hipster posers that she is."
Well, I can't deny that the above statement is pretty much true, except the 'hipster poser' part. (You can call me a hipster but I'm definitely more real than any of the 'real' hipsters you know/ are.)

All right, I'll cut to the chase. I'm envious of artists.
Not just the artists who paint, I wish I have the minds of writers like Haruki Murakami, Jodi Picoult and J.K. Rowling, the vocal chords of P!nk, Avril Lavigne's spunkiness and power with the instruments, the lyrical geniosity of Two Door Cinema Club or Ed Sheeran, maybe Billie Joe Armstrong, the personality of Emma Watson in sense of her attitude towards acting.

Probably a little bit much for me to ask, or not at all, because I am born without a talent. Generally speaking, everyone's good at something - a consolation to myself, I should have something that I am good at.
But,
I don't know what.

I like writing, it's probably the easiest thing to do. Just pick up a pen and grab a piece of paper and just scribble words. We've been writing for all of our lives, how is that difficult.
Nothing difficult if I didn't think that I want to take writing seriously- scratch that, properly.

When I read, I truly get transported to that world that the author writes, and if it intrigues me, fascinates me, shows me its world, I would befriend the characters, I would marry the plot, I would bury the ending. I will write, someday, a proper something to call a read, and I try to envision that first baby step of success but instead I cringe. I am afraid of showing people my words.

It is sadly ironic that I post this entry on my blog and then be frightened of its viewership. Sure, visualising the end-product is easy, it's just a perfect picture of me holding up a book that has a nice title and a nice cover to a typical 400 or 500-page paperback with my name on the spine.
I can't imagine the process of writing it, what would my parents think of the things that I wrote, if I were trying to write intimate scenes or dark thoughts?
Not a big problem, actually, but I've got nowhere to start, I have not a single shred of idea nor knowledge of beginnings.

And here I sit, moping. Paradox.

I am envious of such brilliant minds, of such capable hands, of such wonderful eyes. I'd want to pick their brains to know them, to get under their skin and understand them, to be so familiar with their every thought of action that when I read their books, listen to their songs, look at their masterpieces, everything falls into place. I want to know the underlying meanings of the subtle warnings in a book, that odd but catchy rhythm of the verse, the significance of the insignificant blotch on the canvas. I want to see them living out their lives as the prodigy that they are, the masters of their soul, the beggars of their body. Like Beethoven, Hitler, Billie Joe Armstrong, Leonardo da Vinci, Michael Jackson, Haruki Murakami, Sylvia Plath, William Shakespeare, Terry Fox, Steve Prefontaine, Elvis Presley, Winston Churchill, Theodore Roosevelt, Amelia Earhart, Walt Disney. Some of them are not categorised as artists, but the way they carry out their purposes is like a river that flows meaningfully; artists paint them, writers make poems of them, and the songstresses seduce by them.

Days go by seeing me getting just a bit more emptier than I should have been. The restlessness and frustrations that won't cease because I am helpless and lousy. The fog that seems to become thicker the more I go to warmer places; places where they are supposed to be clear.

I'm not bitter-jealous, neither do I feel the electric sting sourness of the envy. Only in the sense of the word, unfeeling. Pretty much, this whole thing just sums up to one word: paradox.

But surely, I am envious of the abilities of artists. To have a talent, a gift, that can be so easily dispensed on a whim, at the master's beck and call. I would never tire of writing forever, of painting or drawing forever, or of plucking strings and singing sirens forever.