Threshold

There is a painting in my studio that I almost destroyed seven times. You would never know it, looking at it. It is quiet. Deep plum on one side, amber breaking through the center like an ember that survived everything, a cool silver grey that feels like the first real breath after something difficult.

It started raw, all orange and red. Then I covered it, and kept going, trusting the process past the point where trust feels reasonable. Underneath, invisible and essential, is a history you cannot see.

Every version of yourself that didn't survive is still present in the one that did. It's in the luminosity of who you are now.