14/11/2025
There is a moment
just before I paint—
a breath held between worlds,
a doorway of skin and silence.
I stand there
as the brush,
not holding it,
but becoming it—
a trembling filament of feeling,
soaked in colors I have not yet named.
Before the first stroke,
I close my eyes
and lean inward,
into the quiet tides of my own body.
I ask my emotions
what shape they carry today—
a curve, a shard,
a river, a pulse,
a soft ache searching for light.
Some days they answer
with warmth blooming in my chest,
honey-thick and golden.
Other days,
they speak in storm-gray whispers,
a restless wind along the ribs.
Whatever rises
—I listen.
I let it travel down my arm,
into my palm,
into the spine of the brush,
until my whole being becomes
one long exhale
ready to touch the canvas.
And then,
only then,
when the truth inside me
has found its breath,
I let the me meet the world.
Color becomes confession,
movement becomes memory,
and I remember
that painting is not something I do—
it is something I become.
⸻
If you want, I can rewrite it in a more whispery, channeled tone, or shorter, or more sensual — just let me know the feeling you want.
There is a meeting point
