People came, talked, laughed, loved, and left. Many couldn't even say goodbye. Some ran away silently, others shouted. But they all flowed away like shadows (for goodness' sake).

But painting... It was something else entirely. The colors never turned their backs on me. The brush never lied to me. My canvas never told me "I'm busy." On the contrary, whenever I turned to them, they opened up to me as if waiting for me.

Perhaps that's why I love painting. It gives me a loyalty no human being can. In response to the faces that come and go from my life, the canvas is always there, ready to listen...

Painting doesn't fight me. But it understands me. It knows the turmoil within me. The calm on the surface, the storm within, the emptiness about to overflow... it sees it all and embraces me. "I am" in every line, "my heartbeat" in every color.