Acknowledged that he didn't have the proper attitude and financial wherewithal to be an artist.
It had felt like a divine omen when his artwork was accepted for an exhibition in London. Was thrilled. Maybe he could still be an artist, you know, do art in his spare time or something.
Was devastated when the work reached the place with destroyed frame and shattered glass. It was an ominous portend. The fragmented glass reflected dreams gone awry, of hopes broken beyond repair.
A realisation - one which he had been denying - that he could never make it as an artist. It felt as though he had buried part of himself and spent much time mourning. Now that it had died, withered and buried, he finally a flitting sense of peace.
There was no longer any lingering desire to draw or paint. It wasn't even aching; it was merely a vacuum. Did he felt sad for himself? Not really. The weight in his heart was gone.