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Fátima Lima (she/her/hers), Low Entropy Volunteer Writer

“Happiness is pretty simple: someone to love, something to do, something to look forward to.” – Rita Mae Brown

I’ve often wished this idea were more specific. For me, art has been all these things—a source of solace, meaning and connection in chaos. It’s my favorite thing because it helps me make sense of life and, perhaps, myself. Looking back, I realize I’ve been so caught up in the endless demands of daily life, constantly spinning the wheel, that I’ve neglected deeper, more essential feelings. We get so busy surviving that we forget to connect with what truly matters.

I once thought I’d have life figured out by now. Instead, I often find myself wondering: Why do I wake up and leave my bed every morning? What am I doing here? Even in the midst of routines, these questions linger, like background noise that never fades. Staying busy doesn’t make them disappear.

Art has always been my way to navigate this uncertainty. For as long as I can remember, it’s been my anchor. One of my earliest memories is sitting in my parents’ bedroom at eight years old, carefully developing photos in an improvised darkroom, using a blanket to shield that sacred moment from any light. My dad taught me the intricacies of photography and those hours we spent together—learning, experimenting—left a lasting mark. Those were moments of connection, not just with him but with something bigger that felt meaningful.

Now, in what some might call a midlife crisis, I look back on those times with longing. The past few years have been hard—COVID and everything that came with it. Sometimes it feels like art is the only light in an endless tunnel. Watching films, reading books, writing, listening to music—all of it gives me hope when everything else feels uncertain. I turn to stories because they provide something reality doesn’t: a clear structure, a resolution. How simple it seems—a world with a script. But the real world is far messier, less predictable.

In these stories, I see fragments of myself in the characters—their struggles with loneliness, heartbreak and doubt resonate deeply. Creative expression mirrors the chaos of existence but also offers a kind of map, a way to explore my own unresolved questions, even if it doesn’t provide all the answers.

But art can only point the way; it doesn’t create the path. Life isn’t a rehearsal or a still life from a museum, waiting to be interpreted—it’s happening right now, messy and immediate. I need to engage with it, take risks, live without waiting for life to assemble itself into meaning. Creativity can guide me, but I can’t let it keep me on the sidelines, safe and observing from a distance.

And yet, there are moments when art stops me in my tracks—a beautiful film, the feeling of writing, street graffiti, the warmth of music on a rainy day. These moments remind me of art’s power to stitch together the fragments, to make sense of things even when life feels disconnected. But when the music fades and the credits roll, the world keeps moving and I’m still here, piecing together my purpose.

If there’s one thing I know for certain, it’s that I’d give anything for one more moment with my dad—sitting together, beers in hand, listening to the warm crackle of Glenn Miller on vinyl. No outside noise, no worries, just being. Those were the moments that made life feel whole, even when everything else felt fragmented. Art preserves these fleeting, sacred moments; it captures them like photographs in a darkroom and gives them back to us when we need them most.

Now, I wonder if my kids will look back on moments they shared with me. Will they feel the same connection I did? Will art anchor them, the way it anchors me? I hope so. Time never stops, after all—it links me to the past and holds my hope for the future, connecting me to the person I’m still becoming.

Maybe art doesn’t need to provide all the answers—it’s enough that it reminds me to keep asking. I wish the air wasn’t so heavy in my lungs and that the quotation I used at the start of this piece offered clearer instructions to guide a soul like mine. Existence is messy and imperfect, and without art, I don’t know where I’d be. But for now, this reflection is enough. It’s not perfect—life rarely is—but it’s mine and that’s enough.

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My name is Fátima Lima and writing is my therapy. I believe art makes us better people, offering countless ways to reflect on today’s world, as well as the past and future. I live in New Brunswick, Canada and I work daily with a multicultural settlement agency. What I love most about collaborating with Low Entropy is the freedom to explore subjects I’m passionate about in my own voice.