In this so-called studio, cluttered with canvases and scattered tools, I struggle as an artist. That self-proclaimed title I gave to myself constantly battles the relentless tides of my anxiety and fear. My workspace is a chaotic reflection of this inner turmoil, where the walls seem to close in, my thoughts are always weighed down with the relentless unspoken doubts. This is what I call my art, which is a visceral expression of this emotional turmoil, dominated by a stark palette of red, black, and white. The red bleeds like an open wound, the black looms like the night, and the white struggles to pierce through, as a fragile beacon of hope. Always the distant whisper of hope.

All my tools are unconventional. I find myself reaching for the least likely of brushes—broken, frayed, and discarded—each one a metaphor for this fractured reality I can not escape. Yet, in their imperfection, I find a strange solace. These brushes, with their uneven strokes and unpredictable textures, become extensions of this flawed reflection I have to endure. It has allowed me in my own way to create what feels raw and authentic, even as the silent whispers grow even louder only to deafen any progress forward.

Each brushstroke is a battle, a confrontation with the voices that whisper of failure and inadequacy. But amidst the chaos, there is a glimmer of something more. My art begins to evolve, not just as a reflection of this pain, but as a testament to my self limited resilience. The red, once a symbol of anguish, transforms into a vibrant pulse of life. The black, though still present, becomes a backdrop against which the white shines brighter, a reminder that light can emerge from the darkest corners.

Through the support of you and the quiet strength which I can build upon I find hope. I know if I can only see my fears not as insurmountable walls, but as challenges to be faced then love, in its many forms, becomes a much needed anchor—whether it's the encouraging words from you or the gentle touch of a partner, the simple act of creating something beautiful despite the odds deafens all those whispers crying out silently in my own head.

In the end, my art becomes a powerful narrative of overcoming. It is a testament to the idea that even in the midst of fear and doubt, there is always the possibility of transformation. Through hope and love, I wish to embrace my imperfections, finding beauty in the brokenness and strength in the struggle. All these canvases, once a battleground, now stand as a testament to the enduring power to step forward for once and all and a big fuck you to all those demons in my head…………………………