A Return to the Studio

“The paint will come. The words will follow. And I — I will be here, reaching outward with color and breath.”

The days are lengthening.
Light pours through the windows of my studio with a gentleness I had forgotten. The rain has done its work — not just in the soil, but in my soul. And now, in this pause after the storm, I find myself returning to my brushes, not in a rush to produce, but with a reverence for the act itself.

Dust rests on palettes, on jars of ochre and crimson, like a fine memory. I do not brush it away too quickly. There is something holy in letting the remnants of the past linger just long enough to be understood.

The studio is not simply a room.
It is a mirror of the mind.
And my mind has been loud these past months --
overrun with bureaucracy, burden, and battles not chosen.
But here, among canvas and wood, I begin to unravel.
Not perfectly.
Not evenly.
But with the steady, breathing rhythm of a man who still believes in beauty.

I no longer paint to prove.
I paint to reclaim.
To let the color speak where words once trembled.

Let the world name it what it will.
I’ll just call it becoming.