When the Unseen Speaks

Notes from the Hollow Bone, entry thirteen.

I don’t always know why I’m painting.
Or what I’m writing until the words arrive.
The moon pulls something loose in me,
and the rest—the fire, the moth, the hush—
they just... move through.

It’s not inspiration.
Not in the way people mean it.
It’s more like... response.
To a signal I didn’t hear,
but somehow understood.

The brush isn’t mine.
The hand is,
but not the heat behind it.
That belongs to the unseen.

Sometimes it’s a presence.
Sometimes just a message.
No voice,
but a pressure—
like being looked at by something ancient and soft.

I’ve felt ill in rooms thick with bad energy.
Felt lies land heavy in my chest
even when the mouth told only sugar.

I’ve heard what people don’t say.
I’ve cried over paintings I didn’t mean to make.
I’ve written poems
that knew more about me
than I did.

This is not madness.
This is memory.
Not from this lifetime, maybe,
but one that lives in the blood.

Call it channeling.
Call it hollow bone.
Call it the ache of being attuned
to a world that no longer believes in mystery.

But I believe.
And I listen.
And I create—
not to be understood,
but because I must.

With Grace & Ink,

Mai