I opened my art case and the smell of pencils and paint filled my inhale. I have dreams often of being somewhere, such as some kind of studio or art room, where that smell haunts me.
It was the sense of familiarity that surprised me. When did it happen? When did something so ethereal, out of reach as art-making transform to homecoming? I am awake but the sense of longing of the dream comes again. And just like that, I knew.
There is no time to lose. No time for fear of the mark of the page, no time for avoidance.