I feel so naked without my art. So vulnerable and just here on my own. With just me. Just my being. I’m not doing something nor expressing something. My art is vulnerable and a deep expression of my heart and soul. Yet when the Muse has not poured its inspire across my shoulders, dripping deep into my limbs, does my soul not speak? Of course it does! It is this voice here that is calling me to listen. It is almost a whisper, nearly unnoticeable, this subtle call. Much different than the calls I am accustomed to, or that I’ve mostly paid attention to. Who am I without my art? Who am I in the spaces between creation? What is this which calls my attention? Is this simply the voice of my being? How can I forget that simply in being, I am creation. When the passion of activism and the surety of advocacy is slumbering in my heart, does my voice carry no meaning or purpose? Does it have to? When the dance is still in my limbs, do I need to fix this? Does my aliveness cease in stillness?
Who am I in the silence?