A Conversation Through Colour
There are moments when I wonder honestly—if brushstrokes could speak to my soul, what would they say to me? I believe they would reveal a quiet heart, baring itself one colour at a time, each line a whisper formed in the rhythm of my pulse. In that silence, where fear once echoed, fragile and unsure, my soul has found the courage to rise. I no longer hide those scattered thoughts; instead, I offer them to the world as they are—raw, authentic, and reaching.
Beauty in the Shadows
There is a stillness in me now, a contrast to the depths of darkness I once knew. But even in sorrow, where the light fades, I am drawn to the fleeting sparks—the beauty that drifts like stardust through the soft veils where my memories once bloomed. These sparks don’t always stay, but they are enough to linger and guide my brushwork and stir a new beginning.
Painting My Story
With every movement across the canvas, I shape something more than an image—I shape a narrative. My narrative. One carried by prayerful thoughts, softened by silence and moulded by the very shadows I once feared. My soul drifts with the breeze like a spark that refuses to go out, quietly refusing to settle into silence.
The Final Stroke
Even death no longer feels like an ending. It waits like the final stroke of a painting, inevitable and reverent—another part of the process, not the erasure. Until that final movement, I lived through each colour, each word, each pause in between, listening closely to the whispers that shaped me.
Grace in Healing
My soul is the soft reflection of healing, not loud but steady—like rain easing a long-dry earth. In stillness, memories stir; in expression, they are soothed. And when I give permission to my voice and the emotions that often slip between the lines, I discover something sacred: each brushstroke becomes a moment of motion frozen in grace, a fragment of impermanence where my soul briefly rises and is seen.