Lately, my heart’s been louder than usual. Not metaphorically. like, literally. It thumps harder, faster, more urgently, like it wants to outrun something I’m not even chasing. So I adjust. I rest longer between sets. Drink less coffee. Switch out metal for soft, wordless songs. Give my body a little more room. Let it feel like I’m listening.
I think I’m calmer these days. Maybe. But calm is strange when it shows up after chaos. It feels unfamiliar, like wearing someone else’s coat. I wonder if others notice a difference. I wonder if there is a difference. Then again, I don’t really talk to anyone enough to ask.
Mornings come earlier now. There’s more to do. I like that. I like being just busy enough to not spiral back into timelines and memories. the ones that remind me how much of last year was about surviving rather than living. Everything I built cracked open, piece by piece, and all I could do was hold the fragments. Some I lost. Some I’m still gripping with bleeding hands.
But lately, there’s this small thing. I’m painting again.
It’s for a game. The background scene. Our artist’s gone, so I stepped in, filled the space. Technically I’m the designer, but this? This feels personal. I like it. It makes me feel real. I forgot how much I missed painting. not for productivity, not for purpose. Just for presence.
I remember years ago, how I used to sit in the corner of the room on an old cloth with my knees tucked under me, sleeves pushed up. My watercolors were always half-mixed and messy, the paper already soft at the edges. There was no plan, no outcome. Just colors moving into paper. I could sit like that for hours, not thinking, not trying. Just existing quietly.
It’s different now, but not entirely. My hands still remember how to move when I stop trying to control it. And in those quiet moments, even if they don’t last long, I feel something soft comes back. Like a part of me I thought had disappeared is still here, watching from a corner, waiting for space to step in and sit with me. I don’t know if she’s the same girl. Maybe she is. Maybe she’s changed too. But when I paint, even now, it feels like we overlap for a moment.
And maybe that moment is enough.