I’d long to see you in action—oh, how I love the sweet, sweet abuse of an artist’s favorite canvas. Watching quietly as they paint what they feel, letting their imagination take them to places higher than I could ever comprehend.

I, a faraway observer, have fallen in love with the way paint paints emotion—how it makes me feel seen and heard, reminding me that there are people like me out there. As I lie in bed, dreaming softly, I even dream of this artist, feeling my soul touched by their gentle strokes and beautiful caresses. Then I wonder: have I fallen in love with the artist? Or have I fallen in love with the art?

The art, of course. Yet I feel a deep connection to someone who doesn’t even know I exist. That thought makes me sick. I ache to meet you—to see you paint your heart out in person, with me in the front row—but I know I’ll never come face to face with the painter who changed my life.

Again, that feeling makes my stomach twist with all the words I’d give anything to say to you, or at least to know you’d hear them. But knowing we’ll never meet, I realize I’ll have to let this dream go.

Still, as I pick up a paintbrush, I understand: words are not enough to explain how it makes me feel. As I stare at my own emotional piece of beauty, I notice it may not be as blended or as refined as yours, but it reminds me of the words I cannot say—only feel and observe, just as you do.