"I don't need your help!" he accented his argument by slamming his fist harshly onto his wooden desk, the measly supplies on top of the surface shook and quivered at his anger.

"You know we're simply thinking of you! You're wasting away your youth, You're twenty!" his mother's tear stained voice sobbed through the phone. Chris felt pain shoot through his being, the illogical guilt of his mother's words ate away at him because he knew that he could never change.

"I know... " he choked out, softening his voice and releasing his clenched fists. I know he repeated to himself "But this is the only thing I feel happy doing... It... Calms me..." he felt his eyes burn at his inability to articulate his emotions properly, if she could just feel what he felt he knew she wouldn't doubt his decision.

His mother took a shuddering, heaving breath and spoke once more "Chris, my boy, I'm old now, I worry, your father worries, you're hardly getting any income, you don't have a girlfriend, all because you won't give up painting... " Chris felt his throat tighten, he knew his flaws, but he was socially inept, he couldn't get his words out properly without being misunderstood, but when people look at his paintings, they see them clearly, each thought out brush stroke, the hesitation lines, the ambience, his thoughts.

If only she could see...