You feel it, or you have felt it. That moment when you are not yourself. Free of the shallows you ignore to function. Free of the gay abandonment of joy that distracted you at your focus high.
The moment that you are not yourself, the moment you are a blank slate, free to paint. But how to turn, and rework your old master. How often the same hills, the same animals. What should be new, should you paint it bold?
You drudge familial lines and speak the same meter with the same instruments. That moment when you are not yourself, if only that moment could last.