I can’t fight off the thought that I must dive deep into myself in order to pull up and out the kind of art that I’m hoping my fingers will make this year.
I also can’t fight off the thought that there’s little down in there right now. My inner life is feels surfacey—shallow. I close my eyes to much of what would pour out at any other moment. But not right now.
I talked to myself this morning. Asked myself who was down in there.
“Hope.” But that’s a painting for another day.
This post, this moment, is brought to you by some of last week’s makings. And maybe next week will come courtesy of my new friend Hope, who will soon have a face.