There are moments when I find myself holding a fragment the world has forgotten...
Something drifting in the water, polished not by time alone but by a kind of patient truth.
People speak of solitude as if it were a deficit, but I have come to see it as a deep reservoir, a pool where the self settles into its full shape. In the silence, I meet the contours of my thoughts—unrushed, uncorrected, beautifully unshared. This is not the absence of others; it is the presence of myself. And each time I touch that presence, it feels like discovering a subtle grain in wood or the soft shadow beneath a stone: something that has always been there, waiting to be noticed.
The water mirrors everything without judgment. It does not insist on stories of sorrow; instead, it reveals the quiet dignity of being singular. When I place the found piece against my palm, I sense how uniquely it has been shaped—by currents, by time, by its own obstinate journey. I realize the same is true of me. My so-called loneliness is simply the place where my individuality gathers strength.
As an artist, I return to this recognition again and again. It touches me every time—that I can stand alone and still be full, still be many. That my inner spaces, far from empty, are rooms echoing with the honest sound of my own becoming. And I understand that the world is not divided into the lonely and the connected, but into those who flee themselves and those willing to stand in their own light.
In that light, I find my freedom. Not as a separation from life, but as a deeper immersion in it—a black and white that becomes infinite shades the longer I look. A clarity the water whispers back to me each time I bend toward it.