I paint where the sun is too bright to trust, where hope trades like counterfeit bills. Crowds press in and the noise feeds itself, color cuts through like a siren.I wasn’t supposed to end up here. For years I spoke my way into rooms I didn’t belong in, built masks sturdy enough to fool anyone except myself. Therapy became the slow excavation, tearing down the false fronts, naming the storms I’d hidden behind.When words finally collapsed, I turned to paint. Black and white at first, raw, unfiltered, until the noise demanded color. Now every canvas is a confession disguised as chaos, a record of survival written in the language of crowds and static.I don’t paint for clarity. I paint because the world is too loud and hope is a drug passed around like bad information. My work is what remains when the masks fall and the city keeps humming.