The absence of being present
I am trying, I promise you that I do.
What I'm saying is that I try to write blog posts, and I end up writing art descriptions, making bucket lists and taking notes for my manuscript.
Those notes lead to extensive research, which I utterly enjoy.
My most recurrent time thieves are managing Instagram feeds and gardening.
I haven't yet published most of my works, as if they enjoy to rest in this sacred stack of files on my desk.
They have a life of their own there, and linger in their comfort zone.
I am sure their time will come. They still need tending.
My own collection of sketches still seems to be turned into papers ruled by better forms, better shapes and colors that don't come straight out of the paint tubes or paint buckets.
They want to feel alive for the first time, on the canvas or paper, and know that they originated from there with the help of my brushes and wrist movements.
Oh, well... it seems I made it. I checked in today with this text and rest assured, I am well and always present in my life, right here where I am.
Isn't that all that matters, after all?