"Art is an expression," says the teacher, her encouraging voice begging us to produce something new. I stare at the canvas—blank, empty, and ready to be formed with whatever the hell it is I want to express. My paintbrush, dipped in its paint, drips onto the canvas. My thoughts echo inside my head, only accentuated by the pounding of clay to the rhythm of some unseen heartbeat. I grip the brush harder, feeling the wood between my fingers begin to give. It’s futile, really, because whatever I put onto the canvas is just going to send me to student services anyway. And the canvas stays blank, with only a drop of indecision.