“Artist of the Soul”

I’ve always felt something I can’t quite explain —

an awareness that lives just beneath the surface of things.

After my illness, it became even stronger.

It was as though a veil lifted,

and I began to feel more —

More emotions, more worries, more hopes —

as if they whispered directly to my soul.

My father understood this kind of knowing.

He was brilliant, not in the way a scholar gathers facts,

but in the way a soul gathers wisdom.

He didn’t learn it from books —

he seemed to draw it straight from the universe itself.

And when he explained it, you didn’t just hear it —

you knew it too.

It landed somewhere deep inside you,

as if your spirit recognized what he was saying

before your mind could catch up.

The older I grew, the more I understood this gift he carried.

I found myself drawn to art — to creation,

to the language of expression that doesn’t use words.

And of all the artists who ever lived,

it was Michelangelo who always stirred something in me.

Perhaps it was the way he sculpted truth from stone,

the way his hands revealed what already lived inside the marble.

That’s what my father did too —

he didn’t create love, he revealed it.

And when I was with him,

it felt as though I was in the presence

of that same divine genius —

the sacred artist of the soul.