The room is a trap. The boxes stack themselves into a barricade of cardboard and plastic. The paint sits in a frustrating, color-coordinated pattern. The tubes mimic and taunt while the brushes lay angrily without patience. I can't concentrate. I can't think. I can't produce original concepts that are striking in technique. I can't compete with high school graduates who have taken more than a semester of an entry level drawing and painting class. I can't focus on anything. Nothing is important. The rage has been building and in a near-tears panic, the boxes form a circle, encompassing my head. Why do I learn? Why don't I? What happened to my desire to excel? Why does everything I attempt seem so far out of reach and why the hell have I lost all motivation to do absolutely anything? Nothing seems worth while. I don't like it here. Drowning in a sea of doubt and failure, it is impossible to emerge. Failure is staying down. I don't remember what it was like to be above water. I don't remember what it was like to feel success.