Home

I’ve learned — sometimes painfully —

that honesty is not just a virtue.

It’s a burden.

A genuine artist,

if they are truly listening to themselves,

cannot hide.

We speak with colour.

We confess with brushstrokes.

We cry through textures, stitch by stitch.

We do not wear masks.

But the world…

oh, the world wears many.

Some people speak in riddles,

some in silences.

Some never let you into the room of their lives.

And if you’re someone who opens the door —

wide, unguarded, expecting warmth in return —

you’ll often feel the cold draft of indifference or retreat.

I used to think that honesty would build bridges.

That showing up as I am

would attract those who do the same.

Sometimes it does.

But often, it unsettles people.

Because honesty doesn’t flatter.

It doesn’t dance around egos.

It doesn’t know how to play games.

And yet —

what is art

if not honesty made visible?

I’ve decided to keep living without the mask.

Even if some doors remain closed.

Art asks for presence.

And presence can’t be faked.

Let others keep their polished silences.

I’ll be over here —

unfinished, imperfect,

and deeply, deliberately real.