A Look Back

Some impulses, no matter how long they sleep, don’t disappear. They just wait.

This happened more than a year ago, but it still holds.

Back then, I was watching a friend of mine dive headfirst into painting. Week by week, I saw him grow, not just in skill, but in spirit. He was making beautiful progress. It was inspiring, really. And somewhere in that quiet envy, or admiration, or maybe a blend of both, I bought myself a set of drawing pencils. A quiet, hopeful gesture.

It had been over 20 years since I last held one with intention. So naturally… I didn’t draw anything.

The pencils stayed untouched, tucked away neatly in a box. Days passed. Then months. They waited patiently, like relics of some old instinct.

And then one quiet afternoon, no special reason, no plan, I reached for them. I opened that box. I don’t know what changed. Maybe nothing did. But I sat down and let my hand wander on that sheet of paper, trembling slightly under my hand.

I drew an eye. Of all things...

Not because I planned it. Maybe because eyes are a place we all start. Maybe because they hold something silent and universal. Maybe because I needed to see if I still could.

It wasn’t perfect, nor like it need to be. But it was alive. I was alive.

Each pencil stroke felt both unfamiliar and strangely natural at once, like dusting off a language you once spoke fluently in a dream. Like meeting an old version of myself I’d forgotten. The texture, the shadows, the soft curve of the lashes... Somehow, my hand remembered things my mind thought it had lost.

I don’t draw every day, nor monthly, even. I still don’t consider myself a “drawer” or artist in that way. But I kept the sketch. And every now and then, I look at it, not for its technical merit (if it holds any), but for what it represents.

That impulse still lives. And when it stirs again, like wind through old leaves, I’ll know to listen. And I’ll draw.

Until next time! :)