I have discovered that my creative journey demands more of me. While painting allows me to process emotions in a way that feels intuitive and safe, writing has emerged as a far more terrifying—and transformative—medium. Writing requires vulnerability of an entirely different kind. To paint is to show the world a fragment of my soul; to write is to strip myself bare. Words demand precision and honesty, forcing me to confront truths that cannot hide behind abstraction. In writing, there is no veil, no protective layer of color or form. I must stand naked in front of an audience, offering my thoughts and feelings in their rawest form to anyone who cares to listen.

When this journey began, it was an ambitious leap into the unknown—a conscious decision to trust myself and believe in my capacity to design the life I envisioned. It wasn’t about following a pre-set path but about crafting something uniquely my own, guided by faith in my abilities and an unwavering commitment to my goals.

My glass of water sits just out of reach, mocking me from the table. And yet, I can’t bring myself to move toward it. I’d rather sit here, parched, than muster the energy to give my body the care it needs. It’s not just laziness—it’s something deeper, something darker. A grotesque apathy, a loathing that runs so deep it’s easier to let myself wither than to do the smallest thing to preserve myself.

This year, I will stand as I am—

unmasked, unwavering, wholly true.

Each step rooted in purpose,

each word a mirror of my heart.

Side by side, we walk through endless doors,

our quiet promises unfolding.

The path bends, narrows, stretches wide—

but always, it is ours.

Two shadows moving as one.

Blurred Days

The clock blinks,

but I can’t read its face—

hours melt into wrapping paper scraps

and half-finished conversations.

Bare

I stand without cover,

no shine, no mask.

Just skin,

lined and soft,

telling stories I didn’t ask to write.