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There is a story inside me.

One way or another, it will find its way out.

Sometimes I wish I had a secret book with my life written out in detail. I could give people certain pages or chapters to read, depending on what I want them to understand about me. Maybe there would be a chapter on my spiritual journey, another on my economic upbringing, and one (or several) on my childhood. Plenty of chapters with hilarious stories. And more than enough shocking truths, even for those who know me best.

But for someone who always has something to say, I couldn't ever seem to find the words to write this secret book. I think that was the appeal of art for me from the beginning. Choosing colors and lines felt more adequate to describe my emotions and my environment than words ever could.

Sometimes I know exactly why I draw or paint what I do, and sometimes I have no idea at all. Or I don't realize until years later why I felt that I just had to paint a particular subject, or scene, or composition.

I'm in one of those spaces lately, where I feel compelled to create things that seem to come to me out of nowhere. I'm trying to pay attention to the colors and the lines and the ideas, hoping that if I give them the life they're asking for, they'll eventually explain themselves to me.

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