The Beauty of Imperfect Rhythm

Right now, I see before my eyes exactly some brushstrokes of the painting I want to create. I can feel their density, their thickness, the roughness with which certain lines are drawn.

I imagine the palette knife, the palette knife with which I’m spreading the paint. I hear the sound of the knife scraping against the canvas, and I already see the painting complete, I see it finished. I see the image. I see the person I’m telling the story of and what I need to tell to fulfill my purpose, to be who I want to be.

And facing this creation, this moment of beauty, I savor it because I know that in these constant ups and downs, in this struggle, in this inability to keep the rhythm, there are moments like this where I feel a thrill, a certainty.

I see clearly the lights and shadows of what I’m able to create. But I’m also aware that in just a few moments I might fall apart, I might already have fallen apart.

In this continuous rise and fall, I know I must not be afraid. I’m conscious of not having to be afraid.

It’s terrible because it’s a constant shifting, an impossibility to maintain consistency, and it’s hard because there’s no certainty and no coherence. The impossibility of coherence is a constant.

But there’s a huge beauty in all of this: it’s messy, it’s chaotic, and it’s fucking beautiful.