The brush moves not on canvas alone,

But across the surface of the soul.

Each stroke whispers who we are,

And who we might yet dare to be.

Creation is not a final act,

But an endless unfolding of selves—

A dialogue between stillness and change,

Between what is and what yearns to exist.

Eyes like mirrors hold the truth,

Half-reflection, half-imagination,

Seeing not what the world imposes,

But what the heart seeks to reveal.

The hand that paints is also painted,

By dreams, by doubts, by time unseen.

Becoming is the quiet rebellion,

Where being refuses to stand still.

So paint the self, the endless sky,

Shape the colors, let them reply:

We are neither complete nor undone—

We are the journey, forever begun.