I feel endlessly inspired. The rain is pouring, and I can see waves of water washing over city wires. It doesn’t seem dangerous—rather, it’s beautiful.
The inspiration I’ve been missing for the past seven years is flooding in all at once, lighting up in me the scenes where the veil once made me numb to the beautiful balance of this world.
My face is burning, overwhelmed by the inner light activated within. I can feel the cold wind on my skin, but it evades my face.
I’ve always liked painting as a form of distraction, an emotional outlet. I’m looking at my most recent painting. The colors are vibrant—the shape is still cowardly and self-restricting, but I can see progress. Two years ago, I painted a lost wish; a fish: its fins facing backward, swimming in mud-gray water.
Now, in its place, a blueberry field spills pigment to the edges of the canvas.
I had abandoned myself. I tried to find the same “me” on the side of the road where I left her. Empty. I drove around and I also rested, meditating with my hands resting on my knees and towards the sky - nothing came of it. Time passed and my palms slowly filled with the broad, sweeping waves of the river I had always dreamed of becoming.
Then I understood: we never lose ourselves. We always have access to any version of ourselves from any point in our lives.
We can never truly leave ourselves behind. That can be either a good or bad thing, but for me, it is deeply reassuring.
We don’t have to be afraid to lose. We can untighten the wire, just enough, to get distance and gain perspective. We can only grow from that experience. The pigment of life is discovered anew with the fresh water flooding into the old cracks of consciousness and defines everything it encompasses.
