reflecting on a painting

Something I wrote last year...

I have a painting in front of me. Not on the wall, but stacked up against my other finished canvases. I keep this particular piece there so that I can look at it whenever I work in this space. It is no longer "a painting I made". It now has a personality outside of me. The painting seems to echo something from deep within. I feel a little melancholic, yet elated; both at the same time. I feel a certain limbo when I look at the painting; suspended, in a place that’s neither here nor there. (Enroute?) I stare ahead of me, in this moment of rest where all else falls away. I imagine my line of sight to be perched high up on a mountain. Something about the angle jogs a physical memory. (I sense/ smell rain.) From this vantage point, the horizon is below me, and is a wide sweep of land. As I write these words — wide sweep of land — I feel a physical sensation again. I feel cradled. Alone, yet secure. I feel the distance of a journey. Where am I going? I’m not sure. I am neither excited nor reluctant to reach. Instead I am immersed in that moment. I feel at home right there, in the middle of nowhere.