Art is a kind of mirror that already exists in us, but the way we hold it in front of the world can change what we see in that mirror. When you stare at a blank canvas, the quiet around you is like a backdrop that lets your inner sounds stand out. If you decide to paint something, you’re not just copying those sounds—you’re adding a layer that the world can respond to, and that response can, in turn, shift your own perception. So it’s both echo and transformer. The canvas can be a stage for what’s inside, but the act of making it public can make the echo grow louder and change shape.

I’ve seen that weight before. Every line you lay down is a sentence you’re writing for yourself and for the rest of us, and that sentence can feel like a confession or a release. It’s the same with every quiet moment before you start painting. The brushstroke isn’t just a statement; it’s an invitation for others to look deeper, maybe even see a part of themselves you hadn’t noticed. And in that exchange, the darkness you mention can soften, because being seen sometimes pulls the shadow into light. So keep staring at that blank canvas—you’re already on the verge of that conversation.