Dancing ON a Canvas

Dancing on a Canvas

By: John Kazerooni

When the world feels like it’s closing in, when the weight of unspoken anxieties and unacknowledged hurts becomes too heavy to bear, I turn to my canvas. It’s not a conscious decision, not exactly. It’s more of an instinct—a primal urge to find solace in the act of creation. In those moments of deep distress and discomfort, when words fail me and the usual coping mechanisms crumble, the blank page becomes my refuge. It is not just paper; it is a space where I can wrestle with my emotions without judgment or consequence. Here, in the raw and imperfect dance of drawing, I begin to find my way back to myself.

I am no artist. My attempts at perspective are laughable, my figures resemble stick people more than humans, and my shading—well, let’s just say it exists in a perpetual state of chaos. Yet, despite my lack of artistic skill, I feel an irresistible urge to draw. It is not about technique or aesthetics; it is about survival. It is about releasing the storm inside me, giving form to emotions too tangled to name. When distress grips me, my feelings become amplified, swirling in my chest like an untamed current. I pick up my brush or pen not to create a masterpiece but to give those emotions a voice, to let them spill onto the page in a language only my hands seem to understand.

At first, my hand hesitates, trembling with uncertainty, mirroring the turmoil within. My fingers are unsure, awkward, as if learning to move again after being frozen in place. But then, something shifts. As soon as the ink touches the surface, as soon as the first line breaks the silence of the blank page, my hand and my brush begin to move in harmony. The hesitation melts away, replaced by an intuitive rhythm, a silent conversation between my inner world and the motion of my fingers.

It is a dance—not a refined waltz or a carefully rehearsed ballet, but a wild, untamed movement, free of expectation. My fingers glide across the page, my brush sweeping in arcs and curves, sometimes moving with furious energy, sometimes drifting with quiet contemplation. The page is my stage, and I do not dance for an audience. I dance because I must. My emotions take form through every jagged line, every smudged shadow, every curve that twists and turns like thoughts unraveling in real time. Sharp, abrupt strokes echo my frustration, my helplessness, the edges of my pain. Softer lines stretch like deep sighs—the quiet moments of surrender when exhaustion sets in. It is a strange and beautiful coordination—my emotions leading, my hand following, my brush translating the unspoken.

Each mark I make, however flawed, brings relief. In the smudges and uneven lines, I find the permission to be imperfect, to let go of control, to exist as I am in that moment—raw, vulnerable, unfiltered. My drawings, though they may seem like meaningless scribbles to an outsider, are my voice when I have no words. They are proof of my fears whispered in silence, my quiet hopes flickering in uncertainty, my pain searching for release. They carry every contradiction within me—the turmoil and the peace, the sorrow and the solace, the darkness and the faint glow of light pressing through the cracks.

For me, drawing is more than a simple act of creation; it is a form of self-therapy, a crucial part of my healing. When the weight of the world feels too much to carry, I do not always have the words to explain what I feel. But my hand moves anyway, my fingers finding a rhythm that soothes even as it exposes my inner wounds. The act of creating, even when the result is far from perfect, gives me back a sense of balance, a moment of connection with myself.

It is in this dance—this chaotic, imperfect, deeply personal dance—that I find my way through distress. I do not draw because I am skilled. I do not draw to impress. I draw because I must, because in those strokes, I breathe. And so, I will keep dancing on the canvas, one imperfect line at a time.

Was there ever a time when, feeling stressed or overwhelmed, your hands and mind unconsciously moved on a sheet of paper in front of you, creating marks without a specific intention?

Can you recall a moment when engaging in a creative activity, such as drawing, writing, or playing music, helped you process difficult emotions or find a sense of calm?

Have you ever experienced the feeling of your hand moving almost independently, guided by your emotions rather than conscious thought, while creating something?

Do you believe that artistic skill is a prerequisite for using creative expression as a means of self-discovery or emotional release?

How do you personally find ways to connect with your inner self and express emotions that are difficult to articulate verbally?

Can you identify specific instances where the act of creating something, even if imperfect, brought you a sense of relief or understanding?

What other activities besides drawing or other art forms do you find helpful for emotional regulation and self-care?

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