Rebirth necessitates death.

And today I am dying.

But, tomorrow I will be reborn

because, after all, I am a Phoenix.

…

No matter how much I try to change, build new habits, cultivate positive behaviors, it is only a matter of time before I tear them back down. And end up right back where I started.

But, artists are perpetually starting over. A clean canvas. An empty camera. A mind echoing from spent ideas. A blank page is the limitlessness of possibility. Every word, brush stroke, and pencil scribble eliminates some of that possibility on the way to becoming. And, after an artist makes their art, they are right back where they started, with nothing.

Do I grind out 200+ hour long paintings simply because I love the work or because I am fearfully staving off the return to nothingness? What if I can’t come up with something new?