I was born to paint; not the other way around. I am not born to paint. I was born to paint. I was made for the paint. The paint was not made for me.

Some people find their calling on their sixth birthday, some people give meaning to their life when they are on the verge of a self crisis. Some people take pleasure in this self searching cause, in this relief, but for me, I was born for a reason already. I was born to paint. And while painting, I still try to find a meaning, I still try to find a cause for my existence.

Can it be you?

Can it be you even if I may create the reasons, the romantic notions, the ideas gone before you understand it. What is the difference with a reason that is all too there, that was set before your awareness, that was prepared prenatal. Can I make you my reason now, will you not be angry my darling?

Can I choose you?

Is it not better I choose you other than some mundane saint choosing you for me? Other than a silly idea of us being meant to be together? I was meant to paint darling, and as for existing, I choose you, I choose you, I choose you!

The sun seems new, even though at this moment it lays asleep, but it is different. This time I long for it to come out, as if I fashioned the sun for the very first time.