For Decades

For decades, I lived with paint in my veins, my mind constantly swirling with color, strokes, and rhythm I painted myself into every corner of my world, on all three floors of my home.

Even when the world outside demanded my attention, my mind was a studio in perpetual motion, envisioning, dreaming, composing. I could not stop, even when I was busy with the everyday grind

Every time I approached the canvas, the flow was already there, waiting for me, as if it had always been. The first stroke was simply the beginning of a conversation that had already started in my mind long before my brush ever touched the surface.

For years, I championed the work of others, applauded their creativity, cheered their success. But when it came to my own art, I stayed in the shadows, quietly working, quietly disappearing into the process. I heard the advice—countless times—“You need to show your art. You need to sell your art.” But for me, it was never about that. The act of creating was sacred, and selling felt like it would take me away from the purity of the craft.

Now, after all these years, I feel the pull of change. I'm preparing myself for something new, something I never thought I'd fully embrace. When the time comes, I’ll share what I’ve created.

Sometimes, it’s not about the recognition. It’s about the process, the journey, and the quiet legacy left behind.