For the longest time, I had the strangest feeling as if my art wasn't my own. I would search for hours to find words that I was sure had already been spoken, visions that had already been conveyed, and emotions that had already been named. In this search something that was mine alone, I lost track of my reason, and I lost track of my breath. What I am coming to understand is that all epiphanies have already been stumbled upon. They have been scribbled and whispered, and carved into stone. I like to call them soul rememberings, but call them what you like, you know the feeling. Like the veil falls away, and something so divine flows through you, and the only thing there is to do is sloppily try to capture it. Some write bibles, some search for clarity in the stars, the oceans, our bodies. But for some, the only way to capture truth is through art. The physical manifestation of sound, pigment, and ink. I'm coming to understand that, no, these words could never be mine alone, but my voice is, my hands are, and I will breathe into them with the thoughts of all that will never truly be mine.