Today feels significant. For a while, I had stepped away from painting. Life, as it sometimes does, grew loud and demanding. My day job piled on layers of stress, leaving little room for creativity. The brushes sat untouched, the watercolours unopened. I missed them terribly, yet I convinced myself that I didn’t have the energy or time to paint. But deep down, I knew the absence of art in my life was leaving a quiet void.

A few weeks ago, I decided to return. Not with a grand plan, but with a small gesture: a blank sheet of paper, a pot of water, and my watercolours. The first strokes were hesitant. The pigments spread and bled into one another, and with them, I felt something shift inside me. Painting with watercolours has always been freeing for me, and today was no different. There is a magic in the way the colours flow and merge, like they have their own stories to tell, entirely outside my control. It reminded me why I fell in love with this medium in the first place.

As I painted, I realised my art isn’t about recreating reality. It’s about imagining landscapes that don’t exist in this world. These places might look beautiful from a distance, with their sweeping forms and soft hues, but they hold an unsettling quality when you draw closer. They evoke both awe and unease—a contradiction that mirrors so much of what I feel about life and creativity.

I’ve begun to think of these works as part of a series, which I’m tentatively calling "Imagined Dystopias." These imagined landscapes are both invitations and warnings, reflections of beauty tinged with mystery. From afar, they seem serene, but if you could step into them, you might feel the hair on the back of your neck rise. There’s something about creating spaces that feel otherworldly yet hauntingly familiar that resonates deeply with me.

Returning to painting reminded me of something essential: art doesn’t demand perfection or vast stretches of time—it simply asks for presence. Even a stolen half-hour with a brush in hand can breathe life into my day. Watching colours pool and shapes emerge has been like finding a lost part of myself.

If you’ve ever stepped away from something you love, I hope you’ll find your way back, too. Perhaps it’s a sketchbook, a guitar, or a garden. Creativity has a way of waiting for us, patient and forgiving, ready to take us in when we’re finally ready to return.

For now, I’ll keep painting—one imagined landscape at a time. And to you, thank you for being here. Sharing this journey feels like an extension of the art itself. Have you ever felt the pull of a creative outlet you’ve been away from for too long? Or maybe you’ve created something that holds both beauty and mystery? I’d love to hear your thoughts. Let’s connect and share in our reflections

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