Thursday, January 8, 2026
Dear Diary,
Today I feel the weight of truth more than ever. Not because it is wrong or too much, but because denying it for so long has drained me completely. For years, I’ve adapted, hidden parts of myself, and silenced my perceptions just to get by. Every moment of pretending stole a little more strength, leaving a quiet emptiness behind.
And yet, now, the truth—even with its weight—is a relief. It stops the constant inner friction. The truth of how the world works, of what I can do, and where my boundaries lie. This truth is mine, but it is also a paradox that touches everyone: life asks us to adapt, but too much adaptation breaks something essential.
Art has become the space where this paradox can exist without apology. It doesn’t solve the pain, hide the loneliness, or fix the world. It carries everything, shaping it through material, color, and form. In my work, tension breathes: fragile, translucent, alive.
When I create, I do not hide. I do not have to be right. I do not try to fit into anyone else’s expectations. I simply exist, make, and observe. The paradox I carry emerges in layers, in shades, in transparency.
Art does not save me.
It does not need to. But it allows the paradox to be. And in that allowance, I find something essential: the courage to see the truth, bear its weight, and transform it into creation.