This feeling of being trapped, caught between the sterile demands of expectation and the desperate, messy urge to create, is overwhelming. My sketchbook feels like a battlefield, my charcoal smudges a testament to a frustration I can't quite name, and the very support meant to uplift feels more like a leash. I'm trying to find my footing, but lately, it feels like I'm losing myself in the quiet hum of it all.