Stop thinking and paint.

Spinach, kiwi, banana smoothie. 9:52 AM on a Thursday of an insignificant April. My mind wants to write. Wants to get out. Dish out some thing of beauty. Art may seem like the logical outlet.

Painting/Drawing remains one of the few things I’ve done consistently over a period of my twenty-some years of living. Around the age of 7, my mom enrolled me in an art class for kids at the Newark Museum. Better to feed my love of drawing than to ignore it. I thought that would be enough.

I’d draw houses ferociously. By middle school, if you asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I’d say an architect, because I wanted to design beautiful residences. Deep down, I may still want to be an architect when I grow up.

But I grew up. I grew up in high school as my mom convinced me that my witty mind and gift of gab should not be wasted on anything save a legal career. I resisted. I wanted to be a fly girl. And I loved art. But fast into sophomore year, I became a nationally-competitive debater, sparking my first bout of traveling. By senior year, I had been to Texas, Illinois, Yale, Harvard, and far too many prep schools in New Jersey. For a young girl from Newark (Brick City), this was quite an achievement.

And then college happened. More specifically, sociology happened. I fell in love with research. And although I was fast on the pre-law track, I resolved never to leave academia. This was my home. My professors convinced me that “Amira Rahim, Ph.D” was my birth right.

It was exhilarating. But it was exhausting. Thinking. Being a thinker. It has its costs.

So as I sit here–housewife of 3 months, Manhattan job long-forgotten, with a daily schedule consisting of self-indulgence and pompous resolution– I am finally able to recommit to my first love, my first passion: art.

But these other passions get in the way. I have this stubborn insistence on being a writer. Whatever that means. However that will manifest.

I want to start a few businesses. A few, not because I am insane, but because my creative mind deceives me into falling in love with a new idea, an innovation, as often as the seasons change.

Book writer. Illustrator. Designer. Mug maker. Painter.

“Stop thinking and paint,” is what I need to hear now.

Unfinished paintings, an unprecedented and treasured love for my newlywed-husband, health crazes, and cinema-on demand.

This is my current, regularly scheduled program.

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