Lately, I’ve been learning to paint. And somehow, it feels like I’ve opened a small door inside myself.
When I paint, my mind becomes quiet, as if all the noise slowly moves to the edges of the room. Colors ask for me. They pull memories, emotions, and small fragments of things I didn’t know were still alive in me.
On the white canvas nothing exists at first. Then a shape appears, then another. A sky, a face, a path. As if something I cannot name was guiding my hand from within.
Sometimes I sketch before painting, tracing a faint map of what I imagine might come. Sometimes I don’t. I simply follow the moment and let it choose for me.
I’m not very good at it yet, but it doesn’t stop me from enjoying it fully. There is a quiet joy in being a beginner, a freedom in touching colors without knowing what they will become.
Painting doesn’t solve anything. But it opens a window. And for a moment, I can breathe.
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