I’m a painter now. I’ve painted for most of my life but only as of recent have I self identified with the practice. It’s my therapy. Those of you whom understand anxiety and depression know that it’s like suffocating. It’s like searching for a breathe of cool air in a steam room. When I’m depressed, I do what most other people do, drugs. Alcohol, pot, kratom, ect. They work most of time. I get really depressed sometimes. The kind of depression that no matter the quantity of whatever chemicals I imbibe will simply never be enough. I paint. I paint my problems. It gives me a sense of ultimate purpose. In a world hypnotized by vanity fueled with comparison, art is my escape. The inner demons call to the angels of our being. Finally all these toxic thoughts and feelings have a stage to play and become something much more than just that weight on my chest, the clenching of my fists, the tightness in my jaw. In the words of Meryl Streep “take your broken heart and make art.”