Turning eighteen had often seemed like such a wild concept to me. It felt like it was always out of my grasp, never to be caught up with, never really arriving. In fact, I've always looked forward to turning eighteen, expecting that all my problems would be solved if I had gotten the taste of independence. Oftentimes, some things just look better on paper. My childhood could be described as a smaller version of Hollywood; from the outside it's shiny and glamorous, with lights and cameras. From the inside, it's a mess of corruption and sadness.

I thought that turning eighteen would be a major milestone for me. And don't get me wrong, it was. But only because it's supposed to be. I thought that the minute the clock hit twelve in the morning, I would be a completely different person.

Until it did. And I realised, at that second, that nothing had changed.

The fact that I had turned eighteen at such a horrible time too hadn't helped. I'd always imagined that I'd throw a huge party for my eighteenth birthday. I've never exactly been one to throw birthday parties, and I'm quite introverted and like keeping to myself. But this time, I thought I'd go all out. I thought, for once, maybe I'd actually enjoy it.

The coronavirus, however, seemed to have different plans for me and for all of us. It hit us at such a time that we never really expected it.

I've always wanted to publish something of mine, but never saw the need for it. I thought that it would feel odd, publishing something for a newspaper when I'm only a teenager. I've always undermined my writing skills because insecurity is one hell of a monster. So is clinical depression. When I hear people talk about how they wish they could go back in time to their childhood, I often think about how I can't relate. I don't have any good memories of my childhood, and I don't think that's healthy. But not all people are the same. Some of us are different, some of us have suffered through years of receiving wounds and scars in the form of emotional trauma, but that's okay, because that builds us up, and it fuels our artistic passions and us as people.

Whenever I was sad, upset and angry, the only way I could cope was through writing. Whether it be songwriting or writing poetry or even just writing down how I feel. That is the only way I knew how to cope. When I experienced heartbreak, I'd think that at least it gives me good writing material. However, I didn't realise how toxic that train of thought was until now. I wish I had realised that before I turned eighteen. I wish I'd realised that I didn't have to continuously berate myself and put myself into situations where I knew something was bad for me just for the artistic integrity. Artists are often never happy. And sometimes, art is the only thing that's capable of making us happy.

Art is almost always looked down upon, especially in a country like Bangladesh. But one will never know the true value of it until it's been ripped away from them.

Because art is what makes us human.