Sometimes when the wind blows in the direction of the right person towards me I smell the vitality of spring. Used to be so wrapped up in my head, trapped in the coils and knots of my own hand that convinced me a great artist is a miserable one, that art comes from desolation and tragedy. When the air smells fresh like the outside of a crowded living room I am reminded that it is actually hope. I am reminded to choose life not death, to open my eyes and breathe in, to expose myself to what I have been blessed to see