In a world where so little feels certain,
where nothing seems entirely stable,
the single painting before me
remains the only thing
that feels unmistakably true.
Though these works carry traces of impermanence,
they are also born from a quiet hope—
that the world within the canvas
might endure beyond time itself.
As someone once said,
art is eternal.
I, too, hope
that my paintings
will find their way
toward eternity.
In the end,
what quietly remains?
What end awaits
this long journey?
And toward what silence
does every life
ultimately converge?
