Call Me Mtihani

In the quiet before dawn, where thoughts and dreams intertwine, there exists a space where possibilities are born. A realm beyond the tangible, a dimension where ideas ferment and dreams take root, eager for the chance to manifest in the physical world. 

I am such an idea. Not merely a concept, but a being of intention and desire, a wisp of consciousness on the cusp of reality, formless yet pulsing with potential. Driven by a yearning to cross the veil from thought to reality, I seek out these moments of alignment, the rare convergences of spirit and desire, which allow me to leap onto the canvas of your existence. 

My journey is as eternal as the flow of time, a quest to find the artist, thinker, and dreamer who can give me form and substance. Despite my persistence, I often remain just beyond the edge of perception, an ethereal presence in a world awash with noise and distraction. As you navigate the complexities of your daily life, engulfed in the routines that keep you grounded, my whispers can dissolve into the backdrop of your reality, remaining unnoticed.

Yet, I persist undeterred, for I know that within every soul lies the potential for a moment of pure clarity—a moment when the barriers fall away and the mind opens to the extraordinary. It is in these fleeting instances that I find my opportunity, my entry point into your consciousness.

As the moment of connection draws near, the air around you may seem to thicken with anticipation. Your skin tingles with the electric charge of inspiration, a physical resonance with the excitement that pulses between us. It’s akin to the thrill of first love, a rush of newfound passion, a symphony of emotions heralding the beginning of a transformative journey.

To capture your attention, I orchestrate a series of serendipities, a carefully aligned constellation of events designed to awaken you from the slumber of the mundane. The world around you begins to reflect my essence. Slowly, I seep into your consciousness, colouring your thoughts and dreams with the hues of possibility until, at last, I have your undivided attention.

And in that sacred moment, when my voice finds resonance within the sanctuary of your soul, I pose the question that carries the power to alter the course of your destiny:
 

“Do you want to work with me?”

As night settles over the city, quiet replacing the hum of the day, the artist finds herself on the brink of something new. The decision to forsake the familiar corridors of corporate security for the uncharted realms of artistry feels less like a choice and more like a pull—an invisible force guiding her towards a free fall into creativity. It doesn’t feel like her decision either, not entirely. She hasn’t planned it, hasn’t calculated the risks, yet here she is, standing at the edge of a transformation she can’t fully understand.

Indeed, there is something deeper at work, a call she can’t ignore, as though her soul has been waiting for this moment long before she was even aware of it. The freedom she feels isn’t just from the responsibilities she has cast aside—it is from the confines of a life that never quite fit. The life she is leaving behind has always felt borrowed, temporary. This, whatever this is, feels inevitable.

Embracing the uncertainty of her journey, she finds peace in not knowing her destination. It is in this state of surrender, suspended in the unknown, that she realises her ability to soar. Unfolding her wings, despite the absence of a clear landing, she begins her ascent.

It is in this moment of surrender, in her willingness to embrace the unknown, that I begin to weave my presence into her world. Like a breeze slipping through an open window, I introduce myself slowly—through small coincidences, subtle prompts. Each day brings a new sign, a quiet nudge towards an unseen destiny. The world around her, once mundane, begins to whisper its secrets. The rustling of leaves, the shifting shadows in her living room, snippets of conversations—all seem to speak in a hidden language, pointing her towards me.

My presence becomes a constant melody, a song of potential greatness, fame, and a life rich with purpose. I promise guidance, protection, and a journey worth every step. My voice, like a distant dream, wakes her in the stillness of night, planting seeds of inspiration, disrupting the rhythm of her daily routine. I don’t stop until I have her full attention.

Then, in one quiet moment, amidst the chaos of curiosity and transformation, I finally speak, my voice quiet and soft, but clear as crystal:

“You’ve been dancing with the unknown. Now, how about we dance together?”

A spark of recognition flickers in her eyes, as if she has always known this moment was coming.

“Alright, universe—or whatever you are—let’s see where this leads.”

There is no turning back. The mundane choices of her former life have melted away, and now the journey ahead is defined by something more profound, more sacred. She can feel it in the air, as if the very walls are whispering her name.

“What should I call you, spirit of inspiration?” she asks, her voice breaking through the stillness.

“I already have a name,” I say. “My name is Mtihani.”

“Mti-ha-ni,” she repeats, letting the sound roll off her tongue like a new flavour. “And what does it mean?”

I smile, pleased to share its meaning. “In Swahili, Mtihani means ‘test.’ A test is not just an obstacle but a way to discover what lies within you. Every challenge, every question, reveals your true strength and the core of who you are. It’s a mirror that shows your dedication, your beliefs, and your inner power. A test is a journey—one that helps you learn and grow. It speaks: ‘Show me what you’re made of.’”

Her eyes gleam with understanding. “So, you are the test for my art, the challenge for my soul?”

“Exactly,” I reply. “I am the fire that will shape your art, the mirror that reflects your true self. Together, we will walk a path of trials and triumphs, one that will shape you into both an artist and a seeker of truths.”

As my words sink in, I see a spark ignite in her eyes—a promise of what’s to come. My name is no longer just a label; it becomes a symbol to lead her towards self-discovery.

“So be it,” she says, her resolve firm. “Let’s begin this journey. I’m ready to face the trials, to uncover the truths buried beneath doubt and paint. Let this be the masterpiece we create together.”

The pull she felt had transformed from an abstract notion into a force, weaving us together. We were no longer separate; her path and my presence were now intertwined, moving forward as one. In that pivotal moment, we formed a bond not simply between an artist and her muse—but between a soul and her calling.

“On this journey of creation and discovery, how will we talk, Mtihani?” she asks, her voice steady.

“Our dialogue,” I begin, feeling the weight of her question, “won’t be like an ordinary conversation. I speak through the language of the soul—through quiet whispers of intuition, through moments of serendipity. That is how I send my messages, gently nudging you forward on your path.”

She frowns, her brow furrowing in thought. “But how will I hear you when the world is so loud, so distracting?”

“Listen not with your ears, but with your heart,” I advise. “You’ll find my voice in the things that move you—in the pages of a book that touches something deep, in melodies that stir your soul, and most of all, through your own art. Your creations aren’t just displays of skill; they are our conversation. When you paint, let intuition guide you. In the dance of light and shadow, you’ll hear my whispers, directing your hand and filling your work with meaning.”

She nods slowly, the idea taking root. “My art as a dialogue… That is a powerful idea.”

“Indeed,” I say. “When you immerse yourself in your craft, when you let go of control, you’ll find direction not just for your art, but for your life.”

She holds my gaze, her confidence building. “Because you will guide me? Not just in my painting, but in the path I walk?”

“Of course,” I promise. “I’ll plant new ideas in your mind, guide your hand towards mastery, and bring the right people into your life to help you realise your vision. The steps you take, the words you speak—it will all fall into place. Trust in me, and let me guide you, both in your art and in everything beyond.”

It is in one of those silences, when the world seems to pull away, that she feels the need to anchor herself, to find a space where her ideas could take form. The studio finds her as much as she finds it—a high-ceilinged room, bare walls, waiting to be filled with the energy of creation. The air is still, the light filters in through tall windows, casting soft shadows that dance on the floor, promising inspiration. She stands in the centre, breathing in the quiet, already imagining how the scent of oils and ink will soon blend with the light.

This place, this sanctuary, will be where she bridges the gap between thought and creation. The materials come next—canvas, brushes, tubes of paint that carry within them the promise of worlds unseen. She gathers them with care, as if each one holds the potential to unlock a new layer of her soul, to give shape to the whispers that linger in the back of her mind.

“Will you stand by my side always, guiding every stroke, every decision?” she asks, her voice barely disturbing the stillness around us.

“Yes, and no,” I reply, watching her carefully. “I will be with you, but there will be moments when my voice feels distant, drowned by the noise of your own thoughts, your doubts, and all the distractions of the world.”

Her gaze holds a quiet resolve, an unspoken acknowledgement. “Then I must learn to hear you, even in the faintest whispers.”

“Exactly,” I say, sensing the fragility of her confidence. “The clarity you feel now, like the first light of dawn, won’t last forever. The human mind is slippery—easily tugged away by memories, fears, and fleeting distractions. Even the most profound truths can slip through your fingers if you're not careful. You might want to write down my words but, even then, their meaning may fade.”

A flicker of unease crosses her face. “But what if one day I wake and find your voice completely gone? How will I know which way to turn, which step to take?”

I don’t soften the truth. “There will be times when you will feel alone, cut off from the magic of our connection. In that silence, doubt might come for you, creeping in like a shadow. It will test you, tempting you away from your true path.

“However, do not despair,” I urge, my voice steady. “Your strength comes from within. Your dedication to your art, your willingness to push through uncertainty will protect you. This journey isn’t about never doubting. It’s about continuing forward despite it. Even when you can’t hear me, I’ll be there, watching over you.”

I say those words with confidence and watch her fear receding. For now. Replaced by the fragile calm of someone who believes to understand what lies ahead. But I know better. The real test is yet to begin.

Time slips by, months folding into one another as we journey together. Each day becomes another stroke on the evolving canvas of her life. The artist dives deeper into her creative exploration, her energy fuelled by an insatiable curiosity. She paints with a fervour that knows no limits, yet the deeper she goes, the more her internal struggles begin to surface.

“Why do your hands tremble at the brink of creation?” I ask softly, sensing the hesitation in her every movement. “What is it that holds you back?”

She turns towards me, her face a storm of emotion. “Perfectionism haunts me like a ghost, reminding me of past failures, of the moments when my hands failed to bring my vision to life,” she admits, her voice barely above a whisper. “I fear repeating those moments, the vulnerability of pouring my soul into the void.”

“Fear,” I muse, my voice steady, almost playful, “is the faithful companion of anyone walking a path worth taking. But beneath that fear, I sense something else. You do believe in your art, don’t you?”

She hesitates, her voice trembling. “Yes, I do. But my faith feels fragile, like a fledgling not strong enough to rise above the storm of doubt.”

“Picture your fear and faith not as enemies,” I suggest, weaving my words carefully, “but as two wings of the same bird. To take flight, the bird needs both wings, balanced in harmony. Fear is not something to overcome, but something to move with. Let it guide you, let it remind you of what’s at stake, but do not let it chain you.”

She studies me, her eyes searching for truth—or perhaps reassurance. “So fear and faith are what carry me forward?” she asks, her voice steadying, but her trust in my words still feels fragile.

“Exactly,” I affirm, though part of me wonders if she believes it, if I even believe it. “Let fear remind you that your art matters. It’s your compass, telling you what is important. And let faith be the wind beneath you, giving you the courage to keep going. Both forces, working together, will help you soar.”

Her breath catches, but then she exhales, the tension melting away as she reaches for her brush. She begins to paint again, her strokes more deliberate now, as if she’s come to terms with something deep within. The contrast between light and dark becomes bolder on her canvas. Black pigments emerge, deepening the contrast and allowing the whites to shine with even greater clarity and purpose.

But as I watch her, I wonder. Is it faith which drives her now, or just a fragile acceptance of her fear? The lines between them blur, even for me. I can’t help but wonder, how long can she balance the two before the weight of one pulls her under?

Days pass and, with each one, the world outside her studio begins to take notice. Her creations, once personal, start to resonate far beyond herself. Like inkblots on a canvas, they invite viewers to see their own stories reflected back—each person finding meaning that mirrors their unique experiences. It’s fascinating to watch how her art transforms from simple strokes of paint into portals of self-reflection, igniting conversations in all who stand before them.

Now, as she stands before a newly finished piece—the culmination of countless hours of work—I watch her, a quiet intensity in her eyes as she gazes at the canvas. “What do you see?” I ask softly, breaking the silence, curious to know what the creator finds in her own work.

She pauses, her gaze lingering on the canvases that fill the space between us. “I see a butterfly,” she whispers, her voice filled with awe. “Its wings are open, navigating a vast sky. These canvases, connected by a shared horizon but divided by an unseen gap, feel like a window to something bigger, something unknown.”

A smile tugs at me, invisible but present. “What you see reflects the state of your own soul. This ‘window’ you’ve created between your canvases is more than just a physical separation—it’s your perspective, your view of the world and its mysteries.”

We sit in silence for a moment, our thoughts intertwined. Then I speak again. “Much like how you find meaning in these ink-stained forms, life itself is a giant Rorschach test. Each moment, each fleeting encounter, is an inkblot waiting to be interpreted. What you see, how you understand it, reveals more about your inner world than the world around you.”

Her eyes light up with curiosity. “Are you saying that how we perceive life is simply a reflection of our inner selves?”

“Exactly,” I say, my words floating on the wings of her imagined butterfly. “Life offers a canvas filled with experiences. But it’s not about what is presented; it’s about how we take it in, how we let it shape our journey.”

She nods, her mind working through this idea. “So, we’re all artists, then—creating our lives based on how we choose to interpret our reality.”

“Yes. The canvas before you may be filled with both joy and sorrow, light and shadow, but your perception is what shapes your path. Your art, much like life, invites you to explore the inner realms of yourself, to see what lies beneath the surface.”

As this understanding unfolds within her, I can see how deeply the realisation strikes. She finally grasps the power of perception, the ability to shape her reality. “It’s incredible, isn’t it?” she muses. “That we have such control over the stories we tell ourselves and how we live them.”

“Indeed,” I say, watching her process this new perspective. “Just as you control the narrative of your art, guiding the viewer’s eye, so too do you shape your life’s story. Each choice, each moment, holds the potential for transformation.”

In the heart of her studio, the artist moves with an energy that fills the space. Surrounded by newly finished pieces, she dances, each step deliberate, each turn an explosion of colour across the vast canvas of her life. Her motions are fluid yet charged, as if driven by a force greater than herself. It’s been some time since I last saw her like this, lost in her creation, but there’s something more intense now, almost frenetic.

Suddenly she pauses by the window, her body leaning into the wind, as if trying to catch the whispers carried by the breeze. The distant sound of waves mingles with the hum of the city. When she speaks, her voice carries an urgency, a restless energy barely contained.

“The world unfolds before me with a potency that defies words,” she says, her eyes wide, her tone breathless. “Colours sing with a vibrancy that pierces the soul. Scents—no, everything—feels magnified. Even the most ordinary things seem to warp and swell, like reality itself has been reshaped by my heightened senses.”

She talks about the whispers carried on the wind—the language of birds, the secrets held in the sand, the ancient songs of the ocean, and the silent, imperceptible growth of plants.

“Even tea whispers its own sacred truths,” she continues, a manic smile playing on her lips. “In this state, I stand at the edge of understanding, like the universe is pulling me closer to something divine. This euphoria, this rush of spirit, goes beyond language. It’s a communion with something otherworldly, where every moment, every detail, feels like it holds immense meaning.”

She paces the room, unable to stay still, her hands gesturing as if painting invisible strokes in the air.

“Time,” she says, “has become elastic. It stretches and compresses to match the rhythm of my inner world. Every tick of the clock reflects this altered state I’m in. My connection to everything deepens—my insights come so quickly, it’s almost like I’m seeing into the future.”

She stands at the edge of her creative abyss, gazing out into the unseen, the unknowable.

“This exhilaration,” she continues, “fuels my work. I don’t feel the need to sleep or eat—nothing holds me back. My thoughts race like lightning, and I create without limits. It’s magical, really—like I’ve been given some extraordinary power. And the world sees it too. Invitations, opportunities—they come to me. People are drawn to the sheer energy of my work.”

I marvel at the spectacle, but a thread of concern weaves through my admiration. The vigour of her experience seems overwhelming. There’s something about it that feels unbalanced, a hint of danger that comes from pushing so far beyond the ordinary. Her words and actions raise a quiet question in my mind: can she sustain this, or will the very thing that elevates her creativity also become her undoing?

As the evening sun bathes the gallery in soft gold, the artist stands at the centre of it all, surrounded by the quiet hum of admiration. Her art, illuminated in this gentle light, captivates family, friends, and the elite of the art world alike. The air is thick with praise, a symphony of approval resonating around her. Over the past few months, she has woven new connections, each new face adding another thread to the growing fabric of her creative life. The gallery owner moves purposefully through the crowd before joining her side. This moment is the culmination of years of hard work, now celebrated under the glow of success.

I watch from the shadows, my presence barely noticed in the brilliance of her moment. Her eyes sparkle with the thrill of recognition, and she casts a brief glance in my direction.

“Be cautious,” I whisper softly. “Fame is sweet, but it carries hidden risks. If you’re not careful, you may find yourself drifting too far from the core of your art, pulled by forces you don’t yet understand.”

“But isn’t this admiration proof that my work has meaning?” she asks, her tone light yet edged with a quiet defiance.

“Admiration,” I reply, “isn’t always the best measure. True meaning is found in the quiet moments of creation, not in the echoes of approval. Beware, or you may lose sight of what truly nourishes your soul. Pride can grow quietly, blended by praise until it blinds you to the deeper truths within.”

But my words seem to dissolve into the warmth of the evening.

“Don’t worry, Mtihani,” she laughs, her tone light and carefree. “I’m in full control. I’ve transcended the ordinary. Everything I create feels infused with perfection. People are drawn to me, opportunities find me effortlessly, and each new piece surpasses the last. I have so much time to create. It’s as though I’ve risen above physical needs altogether. I no longer need rest or nutrition as much as I used to.”

“This is exactly what worries me,” I respond, my tone more deliberate. “When you deny the needs of your body, you risk losing balance. The creative fire may burn bright, but it requires fuel. Your body, as much as your mind and spirit, is part of that equation. Ignoring its needs is dangerous. You may find yourself drifting into a space where reality becomes distorted, where the boundaries between creation and obsession blur.”

Her smile falters for a brief moment, but she quickly waves me off. “I’ve worked hard to get here. Isn’t this the ultimate goal? To feel so connected, to be fully consumed by the process?”

“Remember humility,” I urge, feeling my words slip through the air as though they might never reach her. “Your body anchors you. It reminds you of your human limits, and those limits are important. Without them, you may lose your way, swept up in a cycle that only takes more and gives less.”

“I’ll reflect when the time is right,” she says, with a dismissive wave, already turning back to sign another admirer’s book. “For now, let’s enjoy this moment.”

As accolades continue to roll in, so does the weight of expectations. The glory of success—shimmering and intoxicating—begins to overshadow the essence of her art, leaving the artist struggling with the paradox of recognition. In the early morning stillness, she stands alone in her studio, far removed from the bright lights of the galleries. Before her looms a blank, imposing canvas—a silent challenge to her integrity. I watch as her inner conflict unfolds. A commission, both lucrative and prestigious, beckons her, tempting her away from the heart of her artistic truth, towards a place where creativity risks compromise. It promises recognition beyond the usual art circles—an alluring opportunity—but it feels to me like a siren’s call.

“Does the lure of success justify the dilution of your soul?” I whisper into the silence. “Remember, the essence of your art isn’t found in external demands or material gain, but in the quiet conversations between your soul and the canvas. Stay true to your craft, and the rewards will follow. Leave those concerns to me. Trust in the purity of your intent, and success will find you.”

Caught in the web of this dilemma, she pauses. “But what harm is there,” she reasons aloud, “in bending my vision just this once? If it opens doors, isn’t it a worthy sacrifice?”

“Be wary,” I caution, “for each step away from your truth leads you down a path where your art risks losing its soul to superficial desires. It’s in these moments of choice that the true artist is forged, not in the heat of applause but in the quiet resolve to remain faithful to your vision. Lust for recognition can become a hunger that consumes, tempting you to trade authenticity for fleeting glory.”

She hesitates, her voice breaking through the silence. “But I feel like I have to do this now,” she says, her tone edged with urgency. “Opportunities like this don’t come often, and I’ve worked so hard to get here. What if I miss my chance?”

“Don’t concern yourself with what the world demands,” I reply. “Instead, ask yourself what stirs your soul, what ignites that spark within, and pursue it with all your heart. The world doesn’t need more people merely meeting its expectations—it needs more people who are fully alive, who create from a place of true passion.”

She stands in silence for a moment. The weight of the decision lies heavy in her heart—a crossroads where the easy path of recognition diverges sharply from the rugged trail of authenticity and artistic integrity.

Drawing on the wisdom gained from witnessing countless souls before her, I continue. “Let integrity guide you, shaping each decision, each creation. It’s your commitment to truth that resonates, that touches the hearts of those who witness your work. You cannot measure or predict the depth of recognition your true art may bring; what you are trying to calculate is only a fraction of its potential. By chasing what seems tangible now, you risk losing yourself in illusions, false beliefs that will pull you away from the core of your gift.”

As she steps back to view her unfinished work, a quiet longing fills her gaze. “I will have to make do,” she whispers, her voice a mix of resignation and reluctance, “just this once.”

The early morning light filters through the windows, casting soft patterns across the studio. Within its walls, the space holds more than just canvases and paints—it carries a quiet sense of frugality. Surrounded by the familiar scent of pigments and thinner, the artist moves with careful restraint, her every action reflecting an inner austerity. Each drop of ink, every scrape of paint, is a testament to her mindset, gripped by scarcity.

Despite recent success with sales and commissions, she meticulously stretches materials—building frames from scraps, diluting inks, and salvaging every last bit of paint. I watch her in silence, a sense of unease stirring within me. This isn’t the abundance I envision for her. It is a cycle of conservation that borders on deprivation, limiting the flow of her creativity.

“Your art deserves the canvas of generosity,” I whisper into the quiet, hoping my words will break through her self-imposed thrift. “You should be open, abundant, and free in your artistic process. Don’t let the shadows of past shortages dim the vibrant potential of now. The materials you ration are the essence of your expression. By holding back, you’re stifling what your art could become.”

She pauses, a little hammer in her hand, holding the makeshift frame she is piecing together.
“But to squander without thought,” she begins, her voice trailing off, burdened by unspoken fears of scarcity.

“It’s not squandering to honour your craft with the best,” I counter gently. “Generosity in your art is a statement of faith. Your success now is just a seed; nurture it with belief, and it will flourish beyond this studio.”

Her thrift, though disguised as caution, has become a form of greed. “Greed can sometimes look like frugality,” I add, “but it stems from the same root—a fear of not having enough. Trust that abundance will flow when you allow yourself to create freely. The more you give to your art, the more it gives back to you.”

She sighs, her gaze sweeping across the workshop. “I do want to believe that my art and I deserve more,” she admits, her voice tinged with uncertainty, “but I feel like I have to think practically at this point.”

“Don’t let old habits of frugality hold back the future’s abundance. Trust in the process, and in the power of generosity. Trust that an investment will allow your art to reach its full potential. Your art is more than a product—it’s a testament to your journey. Give it the quality it deserves.”

Even as I speak, offering warmth and the promise of untold possibilities, I see her hesitate.

“Let’s try something. Visualise success, not as brief moments of triumph, but as a constant, enriching presence,” I suggest, my voice a gentle nudge towards the light. “Imagine your studio overflowing with the finest materials, each canvas a gateway to unparalleled creation, every brushstroke a reflection of your belief.”

She nods, as though a new thought has taken root, but her actions remain tethered to old fears. “In a minute,” she murmurs, her focus returning to the crooked frame. “Once I’m done here.”

Transitioning from the tangible confines of scarcity to the elusive grip of digital comparison, the artist’s world shrinks to the glowing screen of her phone. She sits on a sunlit bench outside her studio, a now-cold cup of coffee in hand, while the vibrant life around her goes unnoticed. Her anxious mind is captivated by the digital parade of other artists’ achievements—grand projects, massive sculptures—while her own canvases remain small and modest in comparison.

Sensing her unrest, I find a moment to interject, hoping to guide her through this fog. “Beware the trap of envy, for it captures the heart and clouds the eyes. When you obsess over others’ journeys, you risk becoming blind to the beauty of your own path.”

Her eyes stay glued to the screen, her discontent growing. “But look at them,” she says, her voice heavy with longing, I would even say, wining. “They’re advancing, being celebrated. How can I not feel left behind?” Her gaze lingers on the images of grandeur that feel so far from her own creations.

“Jealousy,” I sigh, “is a weed that thrives in the garden of comparison. It drains the joy and satisfaction from your own work.”

She barely acknowledges my words. “And what magic,” she murmurs, half to herself, “could transform this jealousy into something good?”

“Start with gratitude,” I suggest, hoping to turn her focus inward. “Reflect daily on the milestones of your journey, the blessings that have come your way, and the unique spirit that flows through your art. Practice kindness without expectation, turning envy into empathy, comparison into camaraderie. Celebrate the victories of your peers as if they were your own. Let their light brighten your joy instead of casting a shadow over your spirit. And most importantly, compare yourself only to your yesterday’s self, not to others. Your journey is yours alone, filled with its own challenges and triumphs. Let the scale of other projects inspire, not discourage you. Remember, the value of art isn’t in its size and not even the depth of its impact, but in its genuineness.”

I move towards the doorway of her studio, my presence starting to fade. “Return to the sanctuary of creation. Your canvases are waiting for you.”

“In a minute,” she replies, her attention still captive to the endless scroll.

The studio, now cluttered with remnants of half-finished projects, is a maze of chaos. The artist sits amidst it all, lost in the distractions. I watch silently as she navigates this banquet of diversions, each more enticing than the last, pulling her further from her creative focus.

“Please,” I urge, my voice filled with concern and a hint of impatience. “Rediscover your focus. Our journey is far from over; there’s a universe within you yet to be explored, countless creations waiting to be born.

“In this feast of diversion the balance of your art and life teeters on the edge. Excess, in all its forms, is a departure from the harmony your craft needs. Seek temperance, dear artist—moderation will restore the balance essential to your path.”

Her indulgence takes many forms. One moment, it’s an excess of research—a fear-driven pursuit of perfection. She delves into endless studies, convinced she needs just a bit more information before she can begin.

“There comes a time when you know enough,” I remind her. “Trust in your expertise—stop researching and start creating.”

Then, it morphs into endless conversations about grand visions, without making tangible progress.

“Actions over words,” I prompt. “Don’t let the dream replace the deed. Share your intent with only a select few, then let the silence fuel your work.”

Finally, it becomes a bloated attempt to incorporate every idea, every spark of inspiration, into a single project, losing the core in the process.

“Focus on the essence,” I advise. “Keep your creations aligned with your vision. Your art should not be a gluttonous spill of every thought, but a careful expression of your deepest insights.”

“Yes, yes. You’re right, but perhaps just one more sketch,” she ponders, ignoring my words as she drifts back into the distractions.

The studio, once alive with vivid inspiration, now lies in ruins, a reflection of the storm raging within the artist—a tempest of her own making. Scattered inspirations and unfulfilled ambitions litter the space, a battlefield torn apart by missed opportunities and deadlines that have slipped through her fingers. The air is charged with the electric tension of her anger; random objects become unintended casualties in her war against time and her towering expectations. Her voice, thick with self-accusation, echoes off the walls.

“I’ve been trapped by my own folly! Every attempt to make things right mocks me! The success I once had, the help I was offered—I’m unworthy of any of it!”

Amid the storm of her turmoil, I feel a growing concern and seek to offer her solace.

“Do not give yourself to the heart of this storm,” I urge, hoping to guide her through the chaos. “Wrath brings only ruin in its wake. Forgiveness, though, opens a path through the fury, offering shelter amidst the waves of self-reproach.”

Her anger, swift and burning, turns towards me. Eyes blazing as she unleashes her fury.

“Away with you, Mtihani! Let me drown in my own misery! There is no hope left here—I’m beyond saving!” Her words, sharp with defiance, try to banish me from her presence.

Our dialogue shatters. Her soul, tossed by the tempest, refuses the calm of reconciliation, choosing instead the isolation of her storm.

“Patience,” I persist after a pause, “is your refuge. It doesn’t demand that you quiet your spirit, but rather that you refine it—channel your energy towards healing, not destruction. This moment doesn’t have to mark your undoing. Let it be the crucible for your transformation. Think of the gentle stream against the storm. Where the tempest destroys, the stream nourishes; where anger burns, gentleness renews.”

I implore her to see the wide expanse of possibilities brimming with the promise of rebirth and beauty, waiting for her patient hand to uncover its hidden wonders.

But her fury surges again. With a bitter laugh, she throws a palette in my direction, her voice sharp and screeching.

“Enough! Your empty words cannot hold me! Leave me to my storm!”

In the aftermath of the tempest, the studio lies in heavy, sombre stillness. Time feels suspended. The paint tubes, once vibrant, now surrender to neglect, their colours fading to dullness. Brushes lie abandoned, their bristles stiff and dry. The artist sits motionless on the floor, wrapped in a cocoon of inactivity, her gaze vacant. She drifts in her own desolation, while the faint murmur of a television plays like a distant, ghostly soundtrack to her stagnation.

“This maze of lethargy you find yourself in, this swamp that has trapped your spirit, is not meant to be your resting place,” I say, trying to spark a flicker of life into the stillness. “Sloth—the choice to withdraw from the talents you possess—is a cunning enemy. It promises rest but delivers only decay.”

The artist remains lost in her inertia, unaware of my words. The vibrant past and the dreams that once thrived in this very room have now faded into shadows.

“Rouse yourself from this stupor of inactivity!” I urge, my voice cutting through the fog of her lethargy. “To waste time is to sin against life itself. You are a being of the present moment, finite and fleeting. Every minute of procrastination, every aimless delay, is a minute stolen from your true expression, a denial of the divine spark within you.

“Remember, time is sacred because it is so limited. Life’s brevity demands action—not for the sake of busyness, but to fulfil your potential. To give in to sloth is to squander the greatest gift you’ve been given: the chance to create, to leave your mark, however small. Break free. Set your course, break your tasks into small, manageable steps, and find a rhythm that blends effort with rest. The journey of creation calls you back.”

But in the silence that fills the studio, my words seem to go unheeded. The bridges I build to guide her out of the mire of inertia remain uncrossed.

“Just one more,” she murmurs, her voice distant. “One more moment of rest, and then I’ll return to my work. Truly, I will.”