existing outside of the stratosphere

I have yet to realize the potential of my own hands, calling upon them to do mundane tasks like eating or writing school papers instead of putting them to the use they were intended to have. To create and indulge, not break, not consume, I wish to utilize this method of creativity, giving myself the strength to hold my pencil stiffly, balancing the lead, its tip, upon the leathery white paper, dragging each stroke down and around the grooves, giving my hands time to learn the pattern. Giving each jot its own theme, name, and understanding. Soon enough, it'll be finished, or what i consider it to be finished, then I can look at it and say "I hate it this sucks" and go months without drawing again, until this urge strikes me, calling my name out the pencil of beyond, existing outside of the stratosphere once more, and becoming my own god, the only human with a paper and a pencil. That is I.