One must emerge from the depths of one’s Self before emerging elsewhere. And I have been molting for 20 years, apparently stuck in reiteration – perhaps a reminder that the moment already exists, is always occurring, and only awaits our attention… now… emerging from depth, from obscurity, from anonymity.

The artist in me once fed on whatever life I provided. But, no more. I am now learning to feed on the artist who is able to see without eyes, he, whose purest expression rests in his labor, not his words; he, who knows how to love without a body and who understands without reasons or prejudice. He has been reborn from my termination, by the fateful plunge impetuously intended as a restoration that led to my demise, a cathartic release that my alter-ego knows all to well, with every stroke of his brush… expressing… purging… and tying knots where once were loose ends.

Over the last few months, I have slowly begun to realize that I am no longer the person I once was, or perhaps am no more. Remnants of the past that once tugged at heartstrings, lingering doubt that once subdued the fire, and even the uncertainty of a purely artistic endeavor, which conjured defenses in apprehension; all the heavy fixtures that once anchored me to the deepest part of the ocean’s floor have vanished. And what remains is this vessel, now floating, not quite weightlessly, though unencumbered by the bulk of yesterday.

The unfamiliarity of that feeling settled uneasily in me at first, I, having disposed of my comforts, the intricate network of feelings once recognized as myself. It made me feel like a stranger living another person’s life, like a visitor disappointed in his host. Yet, the private chambers, where the ghosts of yesterday dwelled, are now vacant. They are quiet spaces with unobstructed thresholds and unobstructed views, are cleaned and swept, and I am enormously grateful for the prospect of filling them once again, with only breath, to let them breathe and forever more remain free.

Yes. I have arrived, an infantile curiosity without limits; arrived in my own arms to nurture; arrived here, having surrendered my apprehension to the air as I fell. I descended. And with every gasp of breath, I became, having drowned my sorrows in a flood of sweat and tears, having propelled the solidity of this body, dissolving in the luminosity of my lust for life, I took one final breath, and having returned to the center of my being, from which all traces of me spring, I suddenly surfaced, as I once remembered myself from the bed of tomorrow, aroused from restful sleep.

My recent sojourn in west Texas, where I buried myself for 36 months, forced me to scan my own depths from the uppermost rim of an incomprehensible precipice. And somehow – inadvertently – I was absolved, no longer bound by the oppressive restraints of whatever held me down. I was no longer the time traveler visiting earlier days, earlier versions of myself in search of answers. I reverse metamorphosed into the construct of a new man, living purely for today. I became a person only aware of what he is to become; for it was always so, my choice to follow what I have foreseen in destiny, the conclusion that created me. And after all these years, there is nothing left to cover up or discard, and nothing to corrupt the voice of my expression. There is nothing but the next stroke in which I can lie down, one layer at a time until I am complete. I am the blank canvas now, a great depth realized and disambiguated. And from that surface, I am now ready to emerge.