What in Me Refuses Silence

On Earth, what seems earthly — a place and a being — appears logical. Yet what could it have sworn to remain, if even words eventually change? What seems like solid land may slide away; the earth itself may become none — not absent, but nonexistent in the way only believed things can become nonexistent.

It is strange that we do not always need a brush or a sheet of paper to stir something in us. We have long searched for reflections of ourselves even within language — and found, strangely, that language was searching within us at the same time.

A human being binds himself to words, to context, to meaning, as though they were enough to build his world. But is the limitation in language itself, or in the narrowness of the soul that uses it?

A precise mind moves in geometrical ways — connecting points, requiring both constants and variables to create meaning. Language does the same: it fixes something in order to move something else. This is its power and its quiet tragedy. Every word is a negotiation between what happened and what can be said.

There is a kind of egoism — subtle, nearly invisible — in the person who takes language not as a tool but as the only sign of truth. Who mistakes the map for the territory, the name for the thing. A language border can corner you in a rough and bottomless lack, shaping your inner life without your consent, making you believe the limit of your words is the limit of what exists.

What is the world to humans? It is neither merely physical nor biological nor madness — it is something closer to a demonstrated demand, a tired precondition of a lost soul, directed toward chaos by forces it cannot name or locate. Underwater waves. The grammar of things we did not choose.

Perhaps language was the first fracture. Or perhaps it was never so dramatic — nothing more than directions, desires, and pleasures, dressed in the costume of necessity.

I sink into something ship-shaped now, voices asking what the questions could have become and where they might have gone — how many more or fewer circles, heavy curse, heavenly blessing.

What precedes fear? What carries the first question before it becomes language?

Was it reason — or something more obscure, a silent pulse beneath thought, an unnamed identity of the soul? Was chaos there from the beginning, unable to remain chaos, forced into meaning because a confused creature cannot endure the weight of non-meaning?

Perhaps we could never define that origin — not until language surrendered, reducing vast impulses into cheap terms, compressing breath into narrow forms of thought.

And if chaos reshaped itself into meaning only because we could not survive without it —

then this was never philosophy. It was hunger. The organism that could not tolerate the open did not transcend — it panicked, built walls, and called them home.

And yet.

Why am I asking? What in me refuses silence?

Not reason — reason would accept the available answer and stop. Not instinct — instinct does not ask, it moves. Something else. Something that looks at the construction we have built for survival and cannot stop noticing that it is a construction. Cannot stop pressing against the walls. Cannot stop wondering what is on the other side of what we have agreed to call real.

That refusal is not a flaw in the human design. It is the design. The animal that could not stop asking became the animal that built everything. And destroyed everything. And asked again.

What in me refuses silence is me.

And that may be the only honest answer available — not comforting, perhaps, but its own kind of ground.

Work Sensation — Artist Statement

This work was not painted to depict collapse.

It was painted to depict construction under pressure.

The figure is not a hero, nor a victim. He stands at the threshold between what appears stable and what is actively disintegrating. The earth beneath him seems solid, yet everything beyond it fractures into geometry. The architecture in the distance is not ruin — it is resistance. It is meaning attempting to organize chaos.

The sea represents what cannot be contained. It does not attack with intention; it simply exists in motion. The walls are human. The waves are not.

The sky, layered like torn parchment, carries traces of symbols and diagrams. It suggests that language and mathematics were not discoveries, but defenses. We did not describe the world — we built structures against it.

The golden light emerging from the fractures is not divine salvation. It is exposure. When meaning cracks, something shines through — not necessarily truth, but interiority.

The smallness of the human figure is deliberate. The scale emphasizes that the individual does not control the architecture he stands before. He inherits it. He questions it. He witnesses it.

This painting explores one central tension:

The organism that could not endure the open built walls and called them home.

The work does not ask whether those walls are false. It asks what happens when we realize they are constructed.

Stillness.

Pressure.

Geometry holding against water.

That is the sensation.