i happens so fast. my attention scatters, my chest tightens, and my defences rise. i’m shown so much i would never choose to invite into my day: content that leaves me tense and slightly ashamed for watching, news fragments designed to spike stress

i’ve heard this phrase often: ‘i’m not racist, but…’ my eyebrows immediately rise. it’s a warning. i listen carefully, because what follows is usually what they believe, and also what they want to deny responsibility for.

the critic in my head had its usual script, measuring every line and value against an unliveable standard. the thought tightened into a sentence: i’m fucking useless, why am I wasting my time?

the paintings and sculptures behind me no longer feel mine. they belong to a time of effort with no return, years of struggle against something that never opened.

destruction has followed me through my life as an artist. i’ve burned, broken, and erased my own work, searching for release when i cannot stand the pain.