I am the hand that holds the brush
up in the midair above the paper.
I am the breath that gently blows over.
The brush is holding its dripping ink
as I’m holding my breath
in the silence from between the heartbeats.
I am the heart.
I am the brush.
I am the heart of the brush.

I create from this place.
From stillness. From vibration. From the exact moment
where silence turns into form.

Ink is my language.
Each stroke is a trace of presence —
not a message,
but a marking.

A portal, not a performance.

This space is for those
who feel the ache before the meaning.
The ones who remember what stillness feels like
and are ready to meet it again.

Let your breath slow.
Let your gaze linger.
What moves you here is already yours.

 If you feel called to support the quiet rhythm of this work, you may do so