I tell stories. Not only my own, but those that exist in the margins of other people’s lives, often unarticulated, often unfinished. Many experiences resist narration not because they lack depth, but because language arrives too late, or the conditions for speaking never quite appear. In a world structured around efficiency and certainty, what is unresolved is often pushed inward, where it continues to exist without form.

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Art is the discipline through which I learned to remain present. When most systems demand coherence, explanation, or resolution, art permits ambiguity. It allows experience to exist without being reduced to a lesson or transformed into something useful. In this way, it is not decorative or expressive, but ontological. It creates a space in which being precedes interpretation.

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What I offer is not consolation or remedy. It is a site of suspension. A place where meaning is not imposed, where breathing becomes possible precisely because nothing is being asked of it. The absence of demand is not emptiness. It is what makes attention and endurance possible.

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Your story matters not because it is exceptional, but because it is inhabited. Without you, it has no continuity. It is neither past nor future, only latent. Meaning does not exist independently of the one who carries it. A story begins not when it is told, but when someone remains with it long enough for it to take shape.