I can’t quit my job

Hopes in the eyes and hearts that were torn,

Urva

This poem is inspired by my Painting where soul of Deer family looking towards light waiting to be reborn and feel complete.

Either the sun is broken,

By Urva

I started writing about the misty weather we have last few days of this month. I said to my husband, is the sun broken or someone broke it.

This was my initial thought to write about it but when we had this conversation and saw the news of a South Korean plane crash where 179 souls were taken away.

When I was writing my raw thoughts all these words came in sequence as it is written in the poem.

I am still learning the art of poetry. While I’ve written a few short poems before, I’ve never practiced it with much diligence. Last night, raw words began to form in my mind just before I drifted to sleep. I thought I had lost them, but this morning, while in the bath, the words came buzzing back, demanding to be written.

My Poem: "My Boat Sails Off on a Lovely Day"

Date:24/12/2024

My boat sails off on a lovely day,

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December in the UK carries a distinct kind of cold—not just in temperature, but in mood. It’s a month where the days seem to disappear before they’ve fully begun, with stormy skies and the weight of winter’s stillness pressing down. The snow that had briefly graced November was long gone, replaced by rain-slick streets and a lingering damp chill. It was during these quiet, subdued days that I felt drawn to my watercolours once again.

This time, the palette that emerged was deeply influenced by December’s greyness. Cool, bluish greys dominated the page, accented by shadows that seemed almost alive. I hadn’t planned this; I simply let the atmosphere of the month guide my brush. The result was a painting that feels like it belongs to December—cold yet contemplative, beautiful yet haunting.

What struck me most about this piece was how much it seemed to echo the way December feels. From a distance, the muted tones and flowing forms evoke a sense of calm, almost serenity. But as you step closer, the details reveal something more unsettling—a quiet tension, like the air before a storm. It’s a reminder that even in stillness, there can be an undercurrent of unease.

Painting during this time has reminded me of how deeply our surroundings shape our creativity. December’s gloom didn’t just influence the colours on my palette; it shifted something within me, helping me embrace the stark beauty of winter’s melancholy. There’s a freedom in letting the season guide the work, in accepting that art doesn’t always have to be light and bright.

This piece feels like a step forward in my journey, a reflection of the quiet yet powerful connection between the external world and our internal landscapes. I’m learning to let those connections flow naturally, trusting that the art will find its own voice.

To anyone reading this, I wonder: Has a particular time of year ever shaped the way you create or think? Maybe it’s the brilliance of spring, the heat of summer, or the introspection of autumn. I’d love to hear how the seasons have influenced your creative moments. Let’s share these stories and celebrate the ways in which the world around us becomes part of what we make.

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