Just starting work with a Compass

When I first picked up a compass, I expected simple circles—clean lines, smooth rotations, nothing more. I didn’t realize that the smallest adjustment of the compass point could change everything. A millimeter to the left, and a new geometry revealed itself. A slight shift in spacing, and suddenly the page opened into flowers, stars, interlocking forms I’d never planned.

I began experimenting, not to design perfection, but to follow where the circle wanted to go. With each new placement of the point, the drawing responded like a conversation. I learned that geometry isn’t something you force—it’s something you discover.

These shapes were silently teaching me. Precision matters, but so does intuition. Patterns emerge only when you show up with patience. A drawing grows the same way a person does: through repeated practice, subtle shifts, and the quiet realization that small movements can change everything.

The compass gave me circles. The circles gave me insight.

The Following Eureka Moments

There were nights when the hours disappeared. I’d draw five, six, sometimes seven pieces before sleep even crossed my mind. The room went quiet, the compass clicked in rhythm, and something in me opened—wider than tiredness, deeper than focus.

In that flow state, geometry stopped being lines on paper. Portals of light appeared in finished drawings, like windows hidden inside the symmetry. Another piece shimmered like a floating hologram. On one, a circle began spinning visually—vibrating, pulsing—an optical illusion so alive I couldn’t look away.

So I kept drawing. I wasn’t chasing a design; I was following an experience. The more I worked, the more these shapes revealed themselves, as if the page knew something I didn’t. Those late-night hours taught me that true breakthroughs don’t come from trying harder—they arrive when you’re lost in creation, and the work starts showing you the way.

The Drawings began to Evolve

Like any experiment, repetition brought refinement. Each night, I learned a little more—how to hold the compass without tension, how to let the pen glide instead of pushing it, how the slightest pressure shift could make a circle flawless or flawed. My hand grew steadier. Mistakes appeared less often.

The work started earning its own weight. What once felt like practice became craftsmanship. Designs grew more complicated, not by force, but because the skill invited them. I began planning more, thinking ahead, yet still surrendering to what appeared on the page. It was a balance between intention and discovery.

Through thousands of circles, mastery wasn’t a moment—it was a slow unfolding. Pride followed practice. The drawings evolved because I did.

Circles Everywhere

As the drawings grew, I started seeing circles everywhere. They showed up in nature, in the way flowers form and seasons return. They appeared in language, in cycles of habit, in the repeating patterns of human behavior. Even music felt circular—melodies looping back to resolve where they began. Everything connected, and every connection curved back to itself.

I started studying Plato’s solids, Euclid’s math, and realized nothing I was doing was new. These truths have existed for thousands of years. Yet the passion I was pouring into a simple compass made them feel reborn. Ancient geometry took on a personal life through my hands. The shapes may be eternal, but the images they became on paper felt like something the world had never seen.

Hidden knowledge expressed through repetition—that’s where the art began.