I made something with my hands and felt like myself again

Dear Delyara, I used to paint before life became so practical. Not professionally. Not brilliantly. Just enough to know what it felt like to disappear into colour in a good way instead of the dead, numb disappearing I’ve known too much of lately. Last weekend I took out an old box of paints that had been sitting in the cupboard for years. The first ten minutes felt awkward, like meeting a version of myself I had neglected. Then slowly, unbelievably, I came back. For two hours nobody needed anything from me. I was not solving. I was not earning. I was not coping. I was making. When I finished, the painting was not amazing. That wasn’t the point. The point was that I felt alive in a way I had not felt in months. Not efficient. Not useful. Alive. That felt like a victory far bigger than the canvas.