The Reluctant Devotion of Making

There are days—more than I care to admit—when the thought of continuing feels like a quiet defeat.

Not in some theatrical, flame-throwing kind of way, but in that slow erosion of spirit. The subtle hum beneath the noise: Why bother?

And yet, I continue.

I return to the canvas not out of convenience or certainty, but because it is the only place where the fragmented pieces of myself seem to arrange into coherence.
Art, for me, is not always catharsis—it is continuity. It is the thread I follow back to myself when the world grows too loud, too fast, too indifferent.

I create because silence is heavy, and expression—however imperfect—is lighter by comparison.

Each piece I make is not merely a statement but a survival. A soft declaration: I am still here.
Even when joy feels like a rumor. Even when the paint dries faster than my faith.

Art allows me to name what has no name, to cradle grief and gratitude in the same gesture. It is how I process the ache of existence without collapsing beneath it.

I do not always paint for clarity. Sometimes I paint simply to continue.
To breathe.
To stay.

I create for the unseen witness—the passerby who stumbles across something I’ve left behind and, for a moment, feels less alone. I create for those who’ve forgotten that beauty can emerge from ruin.
And, perhaps most of all, I create for the self that refused to disappear.
The child who once drew constellations on the backs of receipts.
The adult who now understands that home isn’t always a place—it’s a practice of return.

So yes, there are days when I want to quit.
But then I remember:
Creation is not a luxury. It is an act of devotion.
And today, I am still devoted.

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