If you cannot be a painter,
then buy a house and paint the floors—
let your brush be a mop,
your colors the light that spills through doors.

If you cannot be an artist,
decorate your house,
buy things for it as if it’s your love,
invite the moon and spring for it.

If you cannot be a singer,
then hum while you fix the tiles,
let water be your orchestra,
and your laughter echo for miles.

If you cannot be a dancer,
then sweep your room with rhythm—
each step on the dusted ground
a quiet ballet of living.

If you cannot be a poet,
then whisper to your walls,
tell them your half-written dreams—
they’ll keep your secrets all.

If you cannot find a lover,
then love the walls instead,
kiss the corners with your care,
and rest your heart where you make your bed.

If you cannot be famous,
then be kind, be strange, be true,
for every humble act of joy
is art the world will never undo.

And if life does not let you create
the way you always planned—
remember, creation is not in the hand,
but in the heart that dares to stand.

RSD