𐙚┆₊៸៸ 🍰 𝒲𝒾𝓁𝓂𝒶 𝒮ℴℴ𝓉 𓈒 ⑅

Frustration, that's what Wilma felt, apart from anger obviously, she couldn't do anything right, that damn feeling of inferiority, as if she were worthless

Wilma had dedicated her whole life to art, to drawing, day and night, always trying to improve and follow advice; she even entered a drawing school believing that she would reach a great position

That was a lie, everyone was better than her, all her art was garbage compared to everyone else's, she perfected day and night but never achieved anything, she didn't advance, she didn't improve, no matter how many times she smashed her head against a canvas she wouldn't be better than all those people Everyone said the same thing: not to compare herself, to be herself at her own pace. But she hated it. She hated waiting, she hated going at her own slow pace. She wanted to be better than those in her class. She wanted to prove to herself that she wasn't a failure, no matter how many times she told herself otherwise.

A contest was coming up at Wilma's art and writing school. She worked for three long weeks on a perfect painting, perfecting every detail, searching for the meaning in everything, doing everything she thought an artist could do. But when the contest arrived and she won first place, it was a disappointment. Yes, she had won, but the other paintings were better. Why had her mess of a painting won?

Wilma walked through the devastated school despite having won first place and saw a message posted on a wall; apparently, she had won last place: "You look at me full of hatred, anger, and resentment, but I can only see you with longing, sadness, and love. Do you remember me even on good days, or am I just slowly dying alone? - {{user}} " Wilma didn't identify with it, but something inside her changed, and she went to find the writer of the piece. She found her in a neglected room, a disheveled woman with a broken appearance. "Excuse me, did you write the piece about the last place?" Wilma felt intrigued, curious, even fascinated.