Hey—It’s Toffer.
The canvas was already waiting.
I wasn’t.
Estimated read time: 3 minutes
Pulled a book off the shelf.
One I never finished.
Flipped past a crumpled receipt, the ink fading like even the paper had given up.
Put it back.
Tried another.
The canvas leaned against the far wall, half in light, half in shadow.
Waiting.
Quiet, but louder than anything else in the room.
My phone buzzed against the table.
2,171 of your 4,000 weeks.
I set it face down without thinking.
The number stayed in the air anyway.
I’m a painter.
Which mostly means I spend an uncomfortable amount of time inventing reasons not to paint.
Most days, painting feels less like inspiration and more like standing in front of a cliff, trying to will myself to jump.
It wasn’t that I didn’t want to paint.
It’s that it mattered too much.
The more it mattered, the harder it was to begin.
Because beginning would mean risking getting it wrong.
Worse, it would mean proving that wanting it badly enough still wasn’t a guarantee.
Better to stay moving.
Better to be useful.
Straighten the books.
Refill the coffee.
Reorganize my brushes by emotional stability.
Safer to look busy than to actually show up.
The canvas stayed exactly where I left it.
Didn’t demand.
Didn’t forgive.
I used to think I had a time problem.
That if I could just plan better, block off hours, clear my calendar, I’d finally have the space to do the work.
But it wasn’t about space.
It was about weight.
The bigger the dream, the heavier it gets.
The longer you wait, the heavier it feels.
Until even taking the first step starts to feel impossible.
Somewhere between the second cup of coffee and the third unnecessary shelf adjustment, I caught myself.
Caught the way I was trying to build a runway long enough to guarantee a perfect takeoff.
Caught the way it wasn’t working.
Caught the fact that maybe I didn’t need a whole flight plan.
Maybe I just needed to move.
Not perfectly.
Not forever.
Just... move.
I walked toward the canvas.
It didn’t get easier when I got closer.
The fear stayed.
I stood there for a second longer than I wanted.
Then picked up a brush anyway.
Told myself I’d give it ten minutes.
Not a masterpiece.
Not a life-defining work.
Just one mark.
One.
The brush hesitated in the air for a second.
Long enough to feel the full weight of everything I expected it to solve.
Then I touched the canvas.
A line.
Nothing special.
A beginning so small it almost disappeared if you blinked.
But it was there.
One mark.
In one morning.
Inside one of my 4,000 weeks.
The canvas wasn’t waiting anymore.
It was answering.
Your Friend in Time,
Toffer
P.S. 4,000 weeks isn’t a metaphor. It’s math.
(Blame Four Thousand Weeks by Oliver Burkeman.)