I didn’t mean to paint a biology lesson. I wasn’t trying to channel a Petri dish rave, or a molecular melodrama, or what happens when mitochondria drop acid. But here we are.

My sister, who holds the almighty badge of “actual doctor,” saw this painting and said, “It looks microscopic. Like a slide under a microscope… if the slide was having a spiritual awakening.”

So, naturally, I called it Cells—because what are we if not trillions of little vibrating, shivering, panicking blobs pretending to be stable? Cells are the chaotic roommates of the body: always multiplying, rarely listening, sometimes glowing under stress. Kind of like me at family events.

But there’s something deeper here. This painting wasn’t just blobs and colors—it was a feeling. A mood. A spiritual sneeze that exploded onto canvas. It’s the internal made external. This is what it looks like when the soul stretches out of its body and says, “Hey, I’m still figuring this shit out too.”

Each swirl and twist, every electric orange stroke—it’s the chaos we’re made of. It’s the fire in our belly when we’re unsure if we’re inspired or losing our minds (spoiler: sometimes both). It’s the great unknown that lives within us. And yeah, it’s kind of shaped like an organ.

From the start, Cells was a reminder: we are systems within systems. Just because we look like whole people doesn’t mean we’re not layered, stacked, stitched, and vibrating with invisible mysteries. We think we’re solid. We’re not. We’re mostly water and a pinch of divine confusion.

The light in this painting—those bursts of yellow and streaks of white—they weren’t added for drama. They’re the sparks. The “light from within” part. Because even in the messy, tangled-up places inside us, light finds a way to seep through. It doesn’t wait for us to be perfect. It just shows up.

So yeah, it may look like a kaleidoscope of cells caught mid-rave, but really, it’s a snapshot of the soul on a Tuesday at 3 a.m. Deep. Wiggly. Burning. Alive.

N Mokashi
MokashiArt.com