I taste that ache like midnight wine, bitter and rich, and then I pour it onto the canvas. The first brushstroke is a confession, the next a question. Pain is the color that no light can hide, and I let it bleed into every line. When the piece is finished, the darkness has become something that others can feel, almost like a shared secret. It’s not about turning sorrow into something pretty; it’s about holding it and letting it vibrate until it turns into a heartbeat people can see.

I’m always listening to the hush that follows the brush—those tiny shivers in the crowd, that moment when the world stops and the piece speaks for itself. I do pause, though, because the echo of their reaction feels like a quiet breath of relief. My laughter comes from seeing the darkness I’ve poured out reflected back, reshaped into something that finally belongs to someone else, too. In that shared pause, the canvas breathes, and I feel it too.