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Exile of Faces
They are looking in the same direction. Not at the same place.
Because even when people look in the same direction, they fall into different places.
These faces do not belong to a single body;
they are stacked versions of a lifetime.
Each one is a different age, a different fracture, a different mistake.
They are piled on top of each other because people can never neatly stack their experiences.
The face on top is hopeful.
Life hasn't whispered its name to it yet.
The further down you go, the heavier the gazes become.
Loved somewhere, gave up somewhere, forgot themselves somewhere.
There are roses in their hair—you think it's romantic.
It's not.
Each rose is a fancy way of saying, “I broke here.”
You see small figures in between.
Horses, animals, the subconscious—it doesn't matter.
They are what we cannot escape.
Whatever humans suppress, they turn into symbols.
The face at the bottom is almost looking at the ground.
Because some truths don't stay at eye level.
You can't see them without bending down.
And humans hate bending down to themselves the most.
“OFFSET” is written on the side.
The margin of error.
Life's small but deadly margin of error.
Saying the wrong thing at the wrong time,
loving someone a little too late,
giving up on yourself a little too soon.
This painting says, without embellishment:
You are not alone.
You are the crowd of all the situations you couldn't handle.
And every face you haven't made peace with
will one day look at you askance.
They're looking in the same direction—
That direction is not the future.
That direction is acceptance.
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Lost Memories
Let me say this right away:
This is not an escape.
This is the moment of liberation from the burden.
The curtain has parted.
On the left is the archive of life:
photographs, letters, unfinished sentences,
faces saved for “maybe someday.”
All of it paper—
because memories seem durable but are the easiest things to tear.
People break apart when they leave there.
Look, the body moves forward, but the back turns to dust.
Because people cannot carry their past as it is;
they either drag it along
or walk by tearing it away from themselves.
The moon is directly opposite.
Neither romantic nor hopeful.
A cold witness.
It doesn't ask, “Did the one who left really leave?”
It looks at “How much of the one left behind remains?”
There are notebooks falling into the sea.
Some will sink.
Some will stay on the surface.
Just like memories:
some pull you to the bottom,
some just hurt on the surface.
A poet whispers from somewhere:
"What you call memory
is less what was lived
than an irrevocable lie."
And yes, the name of this art is right: Lost Memories.
But not lost memories.
What is lost is
the old you who tried to live by clinging to them.
This figure soars forward because it now knows:
The past is a person's home, but
it should not be their grave.
Let the last sentence be harsh, without embellishment:
If you carry your memories with you, you become heavy.
If you can let them go—
you may not fly, but
at least you won't drown.
