The Call to Create

I wake with a pulse, an urge that feels almost like an ache. It’s a fierce, unexplainable need that grips me and won’t let go. I need to paint. Not just casually, not just dabbling with colors in a small corner of my studio. I need to immerse myself in something vast, something consuming. I picture a massive, open room, walls lined with blank canvases taller than I am, stretching into every corner, waiting. They’re calling me, pulling at this weight inside me that’s been building, swelling, bursting to be released.

I want to move from one canvas to the next and the next, each one catching whatever pours out of me at that moment. I want to feel the rhythm, the release: release, release, release as I pour my heart into each panel, leaving nothing unsaid, nothing buried.

Maybe it’s because today is Election Day, or perhaps it’s just something that’s been brewing inside me, waiting for this moment. All I know is I’m ready to be lost in this, to step into a place where the world around me blurs and only the colors, the movement, and the music matter. I can see it now: my brush sweeping, hands covered in paint, my body moving instinctively, almost in worship. This is sacred ground for me. There is no clock, no outside world only the cycle of creation. Eat. Paint. Worship. Breathe.

This is where my soul finds freedom, where everything I hold back comes pouring out, raw and honest, messy and powerful. I don’t want to stop. I want to stay in this, moving from canvas to canvas, lost in the endless release.

Reality sets in as I think about it; this vision, so vivid in my mind, might not be possible, at least not today. I don’t have that expansive room or the means to buy rows of giant canvases waiting to be transformed. But the urge to create and release doesn’t care about my limitations. It’s fierce and alive, and it refuses to be silenced.

So, I will turn to my little corner of the studio. It’s humble, with just enough space for a small fourteen-by-fourteen canvas, but it’s something. I can put that canvas there and pour into it every bit of what’s boiling inside of me. Stroke by stroke, I’ll let it all out. This little square may not be vast, but it’s a vessel, a place for my passion to land.

It’s just me, my small corner. There is no grand room, no endless panels, but the same raw urge and cycle. Eat. Paint. Worship. Here, in this corner, I’ll do what I can with what I have. And for now, that’s more than enough.