Just over 7 months ago I lost my best friend after a long illness. He was nothing more, but most definitely nothing less. He inspired me to be the best person I could be.

Until this weekend, I hadn’t written a thing since two weeks before he passed. We both knew his time was coming so all my energy went into making things as joyful and peaceful as I could. I was his only family and he was the nearest and dearest thing to my heart.

Since March, I have dedicated myself to my overall mental health. My creativity came out in other ways, but writing has always been my most direct path to enlightenment. These have been some of the darkest months of my life.

There are snippets of pieces that I started, but I knew going into the second or third paragraphs that they were not viable. I was too afraid of the darkness within to be as authentic as I need to be to do my best writing.

Yesterday I had an opportunity to view an art exhibit by an artist whose work I had only seen photographs of. To say those photographs weren’t a true representation of her work would be a gross understatement.

I entered the exhibition space and was immediately gobsmacked. The actual pieces that I had only seen pictures of ranged from 7 feet by 10 feet all the way up to 12x 14. The detail and the vibrancy could only be captured by being in their presence.

I stayed on that high for hours. The ferry ride home also added to the heightened awareness of self. I came home and wrote a simple story that digs no deeper than just below the surface. I am not where I need to be to write well, but at least the pen in my hand feels like it belongs there.