By hand and heart

The loud shouting jolted me awake, piercing through the camp with a fierce intensity.

'say that again and see what happens'

Each word they uttered ignited like a match over gasoline. In this environment, threats held no weight; if someone claimed they would kill you, they certainly would, it was merely a question of timing and method. Most folks around here lack anything to lose, and that turns them into serious threats.

I tremble as I crawl out of my sleeping sack, the biting cold nipping at my exposed skin. Despite it being summer, the nights and early mornings remain quite cool. I roll up my blanket and pack it into a sizable shopping bag. It was a fortunate moment when I received this item to help me stay warm throughout the seasons. Since people want these items, I did my best to make them less attractive. I pulled it through trash, blood, and possibly even worse things. I tore holes and damaged the zipper, yet despite all that, it remained something someone else desired. After organizing my tent, I examine the set of paints kept in a dented tackle box that I discovered in a dumpster. The labels are either illegible or have come off. Almost every tube has been pressed from various directions, resulting in their near exhaustion. I need to get some new paints soon, but finding them is challenging. I collected three tin cans to hold water and placed them in my bag before fixing my eyes on my lone, shabby brush. I fixate on my supplies, filled with exhaustion and a heavy heart. I let out a sigh as I throw my brush into the tackle box and secure the latch to prevent it from spilling. I check my tent one last time to ensure everything is packed. If you don't take your belongings, they become fair game for others. Once I'm sure I've gathered all my belongings, I leave my tent.

The intense yelling has lessened, but the busy atmosphere carries on. The sound of traffic overhead reaches my ears. Horns blasting, sirens screaming, and when a big truck passes, the rumble shakes the earth. A persistent feeling of urgency fills the air as individuals navigate the labyrinth of tents, eager to make trades. The air carries the odor of smoke, garbage, and dirty laundry, blending with the scent of urine and an unidentifiable mystery smell. My foot struck a vacant glass bottle that probably held liquor. A method to keep warm during the night and experience short-term comfort.

Getting out of the encampment resembles a maze, since the shelters sit closely knit together and various obstacles like shopping carts, bicycles, or collapsed tents block the paths. I take the longer route, steering clear of as many people as I can, and when I do encounter someone, we simply share a brief nod without further interaction.

I locate a nearby restroom to freshen up and refill my containers with water before heading to my regular spot outside a bustling art supply store. The owner permits me to linger outside their shop to sell my paintings and generously provides me with paints that cannot be sold due to flaws. I focus on my reflection in the stained, neglected mirror. My beard had grown wild, patchy in places, hair matted and dull.

Yet, the vacant and soulless gaze sent a wave of fear through me.

Fatigued. Not only from the street, but also from bearing the burden of unseen matters.

Shame. Regret. One hundred days wasted.

I switched on the tap, which came to life with a sputter, then scooped water into my hands and splashed it onto my face. The dispenser is cracked, causing soap to spill out, and there are no paper towels. I found myself forced to use the soiled rags on my body to wipe my face. I take another glance at myself, wishing to catch a glimpse of my former self, but that man appears to have vanished. Although the walk to the art store was brief, it felt endless as my hunger grew. I noticed a hotdog stand up the street, and there didn't seem to be a large crowd waiting for service. I approached a customer from behind to wait for my turn to order.

'Oh my gosh, what is that smell?' exclaimed the customer ahead of me. 'It's horrible'

Feeling embarrassed and flushed, I swiftly stepped out of the line, too ashamed of my body odor. While I continued down the road, a woman who seemed to be around twenty years old rushed towards me. Dressed in a black blazer and a lengthy skirt. She possessed something within her hands. She extended both hands in my direction, one holding a hot dog and the other a can of soda.

'This is meant for you'

I stammered in shock and disbelief.

I conveyed my thanks and stated, 'I'd like to give you the money I currently hold.' she shook her head and smiled brightly. Then she rushed away, her heels clicking on the sidewalk. I arrived at the art store, took a seat in my usual spot on the pavement, and examined the food I held. I felt immense gratitude for the kindness shown to me and savored the hot dog while reflecting on the inspiration that started to fill my mind. When I'm done eating, I rest a few of my creations on my bag. Next, I start painting something new with the supplies I have left. The street remains lively, but only a few acknowledge my presence.

The world starts to diminish, quietly retreating into the background.

I immerse myself in the emotion and intensity that each brushstroke brings to the canvas.

I harmonize my thoughts, body, and soul.

Connecting with a frequency beyond sound

but of unfolding spirals, blending hues, and the tactile beat of unrefined creativity.

Overwhelming emotions constrict me as if someone clutches my throat, but then they shift to a delightful happiness that feels like sunshine dispelling my anxiety.

When the final brush stroke touches the canvas, you don't just see it, you experience it and embody it. The world floods back in, and only now do I realize someone's next to me, their eyes holding a spark, subtle yet electric, as if they’ve caught sight of what they truly desire. With their gaze still bright, they declare,

'I want this.'

The pressure of gloom, the sting of sadness and the hidden turmoil that follows me. All of it vanishes, leaving behind one pleasant truth,

Someone wants what I've created.