• I was working on my latest piece. I was going to call it: The No Name. And, this was simply because I had no name to allot it. It was like most of my other pieces: Without much to distinguish it. No flare.

    But, as I was blending through the colors, adjusting the hue, smearing graphite here and there to add an aged effect, a vision began to form in my mind.

    It came so vividly and brilliantly that I was unsure whether or not it was merely a work of dream.

    I grasped my eraser between my thumb and forefinger, gripping it so tightly the tips of my fingers were a blanched white. I gripped with a passion for fear that my vision would dissipate. I would not blink, I would not breathe.

    When the tip of the eraser met the paper, I exhaled quickly, the stroke of the eraser trailing my breath. I could hear sounds behind me, I could hear some cries of confusion. 'Rocio, what are you doing to your drawing?' I heard them call. They didn't understand. This was artistic inspiration.

    Another stroke here, another there. I rubbed so hard I could feel the paper thinning beneath my fingertips. But, I did not care. I merely rubbed, erasing the color, coloring over it again.

    Those moments were a haze to me, just my hands flying, marking lines and erasing others to what my mind saw fit.

    It was coming together. It was exactly as I wanted it. A tad bit more green there I decided, another line there. I was nearing completion as those around me gathered.

    I paused.

    'Am I done?' I thought confused. I set the paper down, ready to behold my masterpiece and smile. Before I could even take in my work of art, some one from behind me spoke.

    'Isn't that some famous artwork?' they cried shrilly. Far more shrilly in my own imagination than in reality. This was because, when I looked down, there it was. The Mona Lisa was smiling up at me.

    It was obviously a different medium, and not all the same as the original, but the rough subject matter was clear. I felt several emotions struggling for control within me, with the strongest being a sort of indignant embarrassment.

    I said aloud to no one in particular, 'Why did my artistic inspiration have to be the same as Da Vinci's?'