Everything's art

"... Instead, I doodled an idea I had about a charcoal I was working on in art. I'd found this old picture of a lady trying on a hat infront of this four-paneled mirror. the woman's back faced you--like a Margritte painting-- and her face was reflected in each panel of the mirror at four different angles. I took a look at the Margritte and that old picture, and I thought, yeah, this is a way of seeing mom from, like, all around. So I'd recognize her no matter what and then... and then...
And then I was drawing, my head growing hollow as a gourd, the knuckles of my clenched brain relaxing and fingers unfurling and filling me like skinning on a glove. I love this feeling. I'm not very good with words, but I know there's what you do with a pencil or brush then there's drawing, like hauling up water from a well, sometimes so deep you wonder if there's anything there at all. Michaelangelo used to say that the statues he created were trapped in the stone, the stone already was David or the Pieta, and all he had to do was, well, free them.
I guess you could say that's what I do when I draw. I... draw out something just as I channel something else. Like if I draw a tree: I'll pull out what the tree is from what I see, but I'm also drawing from the tree, its energy. I know that sounds weird, but... I don't know any other words to say it. I think that's why artists say they're tapped out, nothing more in the well. For them, there's no more water, nothing left to draw from or out.
But for me, when I draw, when I'm at my best, there's this tiny click, the flick of an inner light switch, and then I'm pulling, drawing from this hidden place in my head and the drawing swells and grows larger and is me. When I draw, there is nothing between me and the pencil and the paper because we're all one unit, with a single purpose.
So as I drew out my idea for my mother, the world thinned, then shushed to a whisper, then simply went away, and I was at once diamond bright and formless as a nebula, floaty and yet so concentrated with purpose, and it was the best feeling. It was like I wasn't there, and still, I was most intensely there, in the smell of graphite that filled my nose and the sturdy feel of the pencil between my fingers and how my vision sharpened so the weave of paper was hills and valleys and threads all connecting together, and it was a real high, the best and I loved that, I would kill to stay in that place--"
- Draw The Dark

It's long and all, I know. But please take a moment to read at least the important parts--the bold ones, at least.
Everything, from top to bottom, this description, sounds all to familiar. It's how one feels, entrapped in a single soul, when they do something they very much like.
But I cannot seem to reach it, this thing that I do that brings me to a whole new world. I was thinking, drawing, that must be it but no, it's not like that.
So therefore I'm on a (very cliche, I should say) hunt on this thing. Though my instincts tell me it's reading.