the day I could have been a doctor...

Even the dullest kid at school is told they will be a doctor, an astronaut. And when asked, I write I want to be an artist, a painter; but with reasoning I have to give three reasons why, “But why?” the teacher countlessly replied. My un-phased conclusion, resulting in the end my hard-days work, simply, or cleverly noted with the reliance of the repetition of un-assumed conformation of what the lady wanted to hear, and that was that. One day I could learn of what they'd never believe me to be, and the next I would confuse at the numbers and squares I'd colour into a flower design through boredom. A fruit bowl my Nana would place in front of me, to guide my happiness of appreciation, happiness through confidence; but time passes, and the uproar of failed exams, the un-interest in the high school believability of dismissal placed upon me from the beginning. Everyone goes through it they say, and from looking back, some stay in it, not me. Like a monochrome outline in a colouring book, a dot-to-dot design, a butterfly, I gained colour, unnoticeable to the rest, and now I must look back, I wonder where it all went wrong? Wrong? Yes, maybe I should have stayed and became like all the rest, content in their hometown of unchanged reality, with the recurrence of change as each butterfly conforms to their colourful future after all.