I remembered having it when I was 10, that was when my parents discovered that I was a prodigy in this field. It wasn't much of a big deal for me actually. It was just like a hobby. I draw what I like then that's it. Me and my sketchbook have been together for 15 years now. Now you're wondering how the pages never diminish for a span of 15 years. Well, that's a secret. As I was walking down the sidewalk of a park, I began seeing girls ogling at a hot guy. I rolled my eyes secretly. "I question human's intelligence." muttering to myself. But thought it was a good topic for philosophy. I sat at a nearby bench and began engraving the image in my mind so if ever the crowd starts to leave, I can still continue drawing. I began sketching, then drawing, then adding additional details. I was finished in just 15 minutes. Sighing, disappointed and sad. "That wasn't much of a challenge, moreover, I finished it in just 15 minutes." Looking back at the previous pages of my sketchbook, people around me would say that these were works of an artist ready to pass international art conventions. But to me, I needed more. A kind of scenery which would make my hand sweat, rushing me of adrenaline and excitement as I struggle hard to finish a drawing. And yet, so far, nothing has given me those feelings.