A hunch, an inexplicable push, and here I was after four long years. The rustic smell of the Chinese ink promulgated in the air, tinting it with the traditional feel from the distant past.
I settled down, taking my place, four years before.
Laid my bag down, retrieved an old friend, my Chinese calligraphy brush. I set up myself, prepping myself to rewrite my old self.
But, after for so long, the old me had gone, leaving only the present me, giving me cues that this art could not be neglected.
Leaving my calligraphy brush to do the art, I let the remnants of my experience in this art flow. It was a roller-coaster ride, steady start, ups and downs in the middle, making my piece convoluted. A pang of satisfaction veiled me up when I let my flow write. Little frustrated by my four years old calligraphy brush, disrupting my smoothness of my writing.
Irritation, annoyance, regret overwhelmed me as I completed my first piece. I forgot a lot of words, I was lost of the ways to compose the art, I was lacking of my old self. My first piece after four years was terrifying, odious, like a pile of shit.
After writing my heart out, two hours had passed magically, I did not even look at the clock for one second, and in a flicker in time, my class had ended.
My shifu and I had a small talk.
Everything felt like home.