Brush, Voice, and Frame

Yesterday left me raw. The kind of day that doesn't collapse neatly into a single emotion. It started off hopeful—at least on paper. A meeting with a local journalist, a kind woman who genuinely seemed curious about people and their stories. She listened, nodded, smiled the way people do when they care. I appreciated her presence more than I thought I would.

But under the surface, something stirred. The art show was postponed again. Another week, another delay. That should’ve felt like a gift—more time to prepare, to breathe—but it didn’t. It only made the distance between me and my work feel longer. I still need to frame some of my pieces. R. had large frames—bold, commanding. Hers looked important, like they belonged there. Mine, in comparison, felt smaller, both literally and metaphorically. People seemed more drawn to her work, more impressed. And yes, I felt jealous. I don’t want to feel that, but I did.

Still, jealousy isn’t always poison. Sometimes it’s fuel. It reminded me that I haven’t touched the depth I know I carry. That I’ve let distractions get the better of me, that I’ve stopped painting... I’ve stopped taking myself seriously as an artist. I’ve become someone who talks about doing the work instead of doing it. And that’s not who I want to be.

One of those distractions has been him. The man who’s been staying over, pulling me out of myself with his warmth and tenderness—and, frankly, his disarming beauty. That something primal in the way we connect, the language our bodies speak... But he’s also a mirror, showing me how easily I bend to someone else’s needs. He stayed over again, even though I didn’t want him to. It was late, and he seemed vulnerable, and I couldn’t bring myself to say no.

Later, we talked. I held the space with calm. He apologised for his behavior the night before. As rain fell softly outside, I made breakfast, washed the dishes, and texted with my ex, who’s sending me the last of my things. I realised I don’t even know where to put new things anymore—physically or emotionally. My life feels like a room where everything’s been unpacked but never sorted.

And yet, in the middle of all this chaos, he said something that made me cry: that he could see me on stage, singing. That I had a beautiful voice. It cracked something open. Did I cry because I fully believe him? Because part of me wants to... Because I’ve always dreamed of singing—really singing, with my whole self, under a light that says “Look here, listen to her! She matters!”

I’ve been imagining more than I’ve been creating. Sketches that live only in my head. Projects half-finished in thought alone. I want to paint again—his portrait, maybe—but this time with more freedom, less perfection. I want to sketch, to sing, to move. But everything is competing for my attention. The endless to-do list of adulthood makes no room for dreaming unless I carve it out intentionally.

So I’m trying. Trying to prioritise. To focus on what sustains me financially, yes, but also spiritually. Editing. Writing. Painting. Dancing. Walking. Breathing. I’ve even been tracking little signs—the clock striking 2:22 and 4:44, as if the universe were reminding me that I’m on the right path, even if I can’t see the full map yet.

Today, the garden looked like something out of a storybook—sunlight catching on every leaf like it was dipped in magic. And for a brief moment, I felt it, too.

That maybe all this mess, this longing, this layered, aching desire to become something more—maybe it’s all part of the path.

Maybe I don’t have to be perfect to begin.

Maybe I just have to begin again.