Greek Autobiography

My whole life, I had been a passenger. A spectator. An observer.
I was a quiet, introverted child and I kept small, watertight social circles, as if I was a deadly secret that couldn’t be allowed to reach the public eye. My only pastimes were solitary; reading and telling myself imaginary stories. I didn’t mind taking long drives; I could perch in my car seat, face pressed up against the glass, and watch the trees, buildings, cars, and people fly by like a dream lost when waking. I never thought that I could be one of those people, that I could participate in the pattern of life.
However, this habit carried through to my adolescence. As I turned fourteen and entered a public high school, I rarely spoke for the first three months of my freshman

The teacher was a bumbling, distracted older gentleman that donned a colorful Hawaiian shirt, and swept his grey hair back into a ponytail. He even still used a chalkboard. He peered at me from thick, wire-framed glasses, attempting to estimate if I would be a trouble maker, or a good student. He had a solid Greek surname, rife with vowels, but preferred to be called an easier-to-pronounce Mr. G.
We started off with annoying introductory art projects and art history; think one-point perspective, illustrate your name, Picasso’s life story, that sort of thing. I was thoroughly bored until perhaps a couple weeks into the semester, where things really started to get interesting. I had made extra money that week, and I had been entranced by the array of colorful paints in the craft store over the weekend. I ended up purchasing a several basic colors, a few brushes, and a two pack of 11 by 14 inch canvases.
Monday, I brought them to class. I sat down at my seat, laying each piece of equipment out neatly and carefully, before I stared blankly at my canvas for at least twenty minutes before Mr. G wandered over, peering over my