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  • So how come I'm not writing as much as before, I asked myself. Is it because I've channelled all my creative juices to my painting and drained the bucket. I wouldn't be one of those people that would think so; though just did in any case.

    Did I just satisfy my inner artist to express, thus leaving, taking a break from, deserting the author in me. I can't really say. But I can say this: the discovery I made from painting.

    The brush, just a tool to place the oil on the canvas, as the pen/keyboard/pencil is to writing. I focused not so much on the painting, the strokes, but more on the painted, the stuff on the canvas, the interpretation of my self and life experience, on to a blank space, with the tool of my choosing. Sometimes a pen, more so now a keyboard; sometimes a palette knife, a brush or cloth. Sometime with oil, ink, pencil or bright and quickly setting acrylics, like a Facebook post. Sometimes with texture on the canvas, like the undulating tone of voice while speaking, sometimes flat on the surface, yet colourful like life itself.

    Expression, so many ways... Dear writer in me, I have not deserted you. At least I think not any way. I have just shifted the winds in another direction from where you can sing your song.
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