So I had this moment with myself. This… this moment of honesty, and I’m not done with painting: with the canvas, acrylics, brushes, and knives; the charcoal all over my face; the mess; the zooming out for hours; the arrogance of not knowing what time it is or even what day of the week; using my legs as a cloth because I just can’t leave the spot to get a new one. I’m not done being enchanted and tormented by this world.

To continue to be honest, I was just mad at my body. I still am. A few years ago, I found out the fcker turned on me. It was one of those life-or-death situations. Some complex stuff went down, and now we’re here. Or better yet, I’m here: alive but not really able and very frustrated. So I shut off. I can’t paint if I can’t paint. And for sure not the giants I’m used to.

Adjusting is tough. Because at first, you have to know you need to adapt to something, then admit it, then figure out what exactly needs to change and how. How long will it take you? Do you have that kind of time? Do you still have that kind of motivation and where does it come from? Is it genuine, or do you want to prove something?

You know you’ve changed, but in how many ways? You’re not the same person, how can you be the same artist? And does art even want me back?

I’m still not sure how to go about it all. I’m trying. Sometimes I’m just working for days like a madman, senseless. Sometimes I can listen to myself, take breaks, and watch calmly.

I’m always very aware of my thoughts, sensations, wants, and needs, but I’ve never been good with emotions. So to spare them with every move I make towards my professional adjustment is a struggle, too. And I kinda, sorta have to, because… I am fragile. I assure you this was news to me, too.

I can’t do baby steps; I don’t have that kind of patience, but in my own frantic yet careful way, I am trying to come back. I want to come back. And maybe not just into my professional life.