A Beginning Is Not an Impulse, but a Premonition

I rarely begin with strong determination.

Instead, there is a small, unspoken premonition resting somewhere inside me. One day, it quietly rises to the surface, and I find myself standing before the canvas.

The blank surface is said to be full of possibility. In truth, it carries a delicate tension—like the moment before the first note in a piece of classical music, when the conductor lifts their hands and silence holds its breath.

A beginning is not movement itself. It is the presence of movement about to unfold.

An Ending Is Not Completion, but Release

I have never fully grasped what “completion” means.

There is always another layer to add, another surface to soften. Possibility remains.

Yet there comes a moment when I place the brush down. It feels less like triumph and more like a gentle surrender—one that grows from having faced the work sincerely.

Like the quiet close of a jazz improvisation, an ending does not slam shut. It simply becomes transparent.

Not a Line, but a Circle

I once believed that we move from beginning to end in a straight line.

Now I sense something circular. The residue of one finished painting slowly transforms into the premonition of the next.

Within every ending, another beginning quietly waits.

Your Own Beginnings and Endings

In daily life, too, there are countless small beginnings and endings.

If you are about to begin something, listen closely to the subtle air before movement. If you are about to end something, consider it not a loss but a return to the cycle.

Beginnings whisper. Endings fade into clarity. Both carry the same depth.