There are moments when the body becomes a vessel
not of function, but of presence.
The canvas does not wait for me to be ready.
It beckons like a lover in the night: wild, relentless, uncompromising,
tapping at my shoulder until we are one.
I descend to the floor.
The paint becomes breath, blood.
Movement becomes memory.
The paint, an extension of my longing,
the ache to be known without language.
Held.
What you see here is not a performance.
It is exposure.
This is my work in its most raw form before it evolved into rhythm, into refinement.
This is the beginning. The first breath.
Unedited. Unrelenting. Sacred.
At the end, I am breathless.
You can see my body trembles. I am always in pain.
But I do not stop.
I cannot stop.
Something holy insists on coming through,
and I surrender to it, no matter the cost.
I do not work from the mind.
I work from the womb of feeling, from the pulse beneath the visible.
The ancestors murmur. The cosmos leans in. And I,
pour.
I throw.
I allow.
A fragment of the threshold.
A language only soul recognises.
If you are stirred, if you feel that ache in your chest
you already know:
This was always meant for your eyes.
Your heart.
You remember.
Watch: