(Slow groove, sparse guitar… words slightly ahead of the beat) Listen— my father didn’t talk much… but when he did, it sounded like he was painting with words. He said— “Son… life ain’t a straight line, it’s a canvas that don’t sit still.” He said joy— joy’s that bright color you don’t trust at first, the one that feels too warm, too easy— like sunlight sneaking through a broken window. But don’t hold it too tight… ’cause it runs… yeah, it runs if you grip it like it owes you something. And sadness? Sadness is the shadow work. It’s the layer underneath everything worth keeping. You don’t see it at first— but without it, nothing got depth. He said— “You gonna walk roads that don’t want you on ’em.” Stones in your shoes, wind in your face, people telling you to turn back like they own the map of your soul. But keep walking. Every scar— that’s a line in your painting. Don’t erase it. Sign it. Then he laughed… real quiet-like… Said— “Women…” Man… he let that word hang like smoke in a dim-lit room. He said some’ll love you like a song you didn’t know you needed— soft… true… staying longer than you deserve. And some— some’ll teach you leaving. Not love— leaving. And you’ll learn the difference too late, but right on time. He said— “Don’t curse it.” Even the heartbreak got color. Especially the heartbreak. Then he looked at me— like he was seeing every mistake I hadn’t made yet. He said— “Everything dies, son.” Dreams. People. Versions of yourself you swore would last forever. But listen close— Everything dies… and something answers back. A new line. A new shade. A new piece of you you didn’t know was waiting. He said— “That’s the trick…” Not avoiding the dark— but knowing it’s just another color. Then he leaned back… like he was done painting for the day. And all he left me with was this— “Don’t rush your picture. Let it be messy. Let it be true.”
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