Seven Years of Drawing

After seven years, I can say with certainty that, for me, making art is pointless. I do not enjoy it. The art I make is not the art I want to make. Art has given me nothing but self-judgment, envy, frustration, failure, and even sickness.

And yet, I cannot escape it. I've already made art part of my identity and my daily life. There's nothing left to do but sit in my chair, make a drawing, look at it for a moment, and repeat. Every day.

Why? Because drawing, for me, has become a form of self-inflicted torture, an activity with no apparent purpose other than to make me suffer. There's no release, no catharsis, no sense of progress. Only the constant awareness of the gap between what I want to create and what I am capable of producing.

I keep going not because I believe it will lead somewhere, but because stopping would mean facing the fact that all of this effort was meaningless. Drawing no longer feels like a choice or a passion. It is just... a compulsion. What remains now is not the question on how to improve, or what I did wrong, or what I'm doing wrong... The question is why continue at all. Where, if anywhere, is the reward in this?